El Scorcho
by Duppy Conqueror
Summary: An AU piece set in a world where Red John does not exist, and Lisbon's father didn't kill himself. Would they still meet? Of course they would, this is how. I tried to keep elements from the show in the story, but I switched them up a little. R&R please!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own _The Mentalist_. In fact, I only really took notice of its existence a few months ago. Title and lyrics come from the Weezer song of the same name.

A/N: This is my first Mentalist fic. The show really reminds me of the X-Files which I loved as a teenager so I wanted to take a stab at writing something for it.

This is very AU-ish. Extremely so, but it was kind of a thing in X-Files fanfic to take them out of their own world, maybe due to the supernatural element of the show. So, I wanted to try it out with Jane and Lisbon. Don't worry- they're still the same people, just in different circumstances.

EL SCORCHO

_I'm a lot like you so please  
Hello, I'm here, I'm waiting  
I think I'd be good for you  
And you'd be good for me_

_-Rivers Cuomo_

Early October, 2010, in a world similar, but different, to the one we know, in which Red John does not exist, and Lisbon's father never died….the question to ask is would they have still met? Well, of course they would have. Even in other worlds fate remains the driving factor, if you believe in such things, that is.

_Somewhere between Reno, Nevada and Sacremento, California on the I-95_

This story begins, like many before it, on a dark and stormy night. It does not however, feature any ghouls, goblins, spirits, magic, princesses to save or princes masquerading as amphibians. The vehicle hurtling through the aforementioned rain swept night was not a carriage made of pumpkin slowly leaking away its spell at midnight. It was a mint condition, lovingly restored Citroen DS-21 (model year 1969, thank you very much), and the driver despite his occupation, and fairy tale good looks, was no prince, and definitely not a saint.

The Citroen's lone occupant and driver, Patrick Jane did technically make his living as a psychic, but he'd be the first to admit there was no such thing as mediums or magic. Well, he wouldn't admit it out loud of course, that would just be bad for business, but the truth, like light and water, always seems to make its way into cracks in the darkness.

For Jane this tended to happen in the middle of the night, when he lay, covered in expensive sheets next to his devoted wife in their beautiful home. The bed would get wider, separating him from his true love, the room would get smaller, and all of its lavish trappings seemed to press down upon him. Insomnia had been his night time companion more than his wife lately, and he'd begun to wonder just how long a man could continue to lie for his daily bread. The answer was elusive, but the money his misled clients continued to pay him to look into their future or contact lost loved ones was very real and present, so he kept at it despite the lack of sleep.

He'd told himself when he'd left Nevada, where he had been headlining a sold out show for the past month, that it was only home sickness that spurred him on. This was partially the truth, but it certainly did not constitute a whole truth. He knew in his heart of hearts that it wasn't his wife and child he was running to when he'd hastily backed up a bag after tonight's performance and hit the road. Instead, if he was honest with himself, something he'd never been until recently, it would be obvious he was running away.

His conscience, like any new born, was waking him up every hour on the hour whenever he tried to sleep. It didn't matter if he was sleeping in his own bed or in a five thousand dollar a night suite in Vegas. He couldn't sleep and it was starting to grate on him. He relied on his superbly honed observational skills to pull off his "psychic" feats, and insomnia was starting to rob him of his wits. Jane knew he wasn't magic, but his clientele did not, and it wouldn't do for them to find out.

_Earlier that day…in Vegas_

Today's performance had rattled him. He'd made a sophomoric mistake and told a woman named Sally that her dead mother forgave her for some vague slight he would not (could not) define. He'd then watched in horror as Sally had collapsed into hysterics and screamed the truth aloud. Her mother had nothing to forgive her for, she'd done nothing wrong. Instead it was her mother who owed Sally an apology. A year ago Jane would have known this. He would have found the telltale signs of having endured abuse in Sally's words, in her body language and written on her face. It would have been no great leap to assume if she wanted to contact her mother that the dead matriarch was in fact the abuser. He'd slipped up today, and it hadn't been the first time, but it was the worst and most public display of his newly acquired incompetence.

He'd done his best to contain the incident. This usually involved turning on his natural charm and charisma, and it worked exceptionally well he found on female clients. He knew his job and his con, and the first rule was never let them see you sweat. It wouldn't matter that he'd made a mistake if he never let on that he did. In that room, on that stage, he was-as he always was, in any setting, with any client-the one in charge. Jane knew he could manipulate a person's emotions and thoughts easily; so he did.

It could have been a disaster. The audience could have turned on him, and a tiny part of him willed it to happen. Then the decision to quit the racket and go straight would be made for him. Thoughts of quitting the con and the stage came and went quickly as Jane refocused his mind to the task at hand and the people relying on him at home. He pictured his wife and daughter, and remembered their reliance on his income. Then he smiled. It wasn't the kind of happy and unguarded smile one expects a father and husband to produce at the thought of his family. Jane's smile was bright, and electrifying, but it also held an edge of hardness. It was a smile meant to disarm the recipient and lull them into a false sense of security. Lately when he practiced this smile in front of the mirror (every facial expression he would use during a client's session got the same treatment) he could swear he saw a snake staring back at him.

Once his smile was in place Jane moved towards the woman with purpose and cast his voice low and soothing while repeating Sally's name. Several more crooning words were added and spoken at the same pace as his footsteps. It was only Sally that he really needed to hypnotize, but Jane would tame the entire audience with the same words if he had to. Hypnotizing people without their consent was not his favorite trick to pull, it felt more than a little dishonest, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

As usual, his considerable skill, combined with his ethereal looks, worked like a charm and by the time he'd come to stand over her in the audience Sally was no longer confrontational. Instead she was just mentally and physically spent, exactly the way Jane wanted her. People are far easier to control once they've been flayed apart emotionally. This fact had saved Jane's skin many times and Lady Luck was not quite ready to abandon him just yet it seemed.

Jane remained crouched next to Sally and offered soothing words until she could stand, but only while being supported by him, of course. This way it didn't matter that his careless words had been the catalyst for her undoing, all that mattered now was she could not stand, could not breathe even, without his help. To Sally and the audience Patrick Jane was once again their savior. He was a spiritual and gifted man who took time out from his life, from his family, to share his power with them. The mood amongst the crowd quickly shifted from tentative rebellion to gratefulness.

Jane continued to smile as he helped Sally back into her seat. The zeal she had displayed while denouncing her mother and Jane was now dedicated to thanking the man holding her tightly. She'd never doubt Patrick Jane again. It wasn't his fault her mother's actions had left Sally repressed, angry and cynical about the world. After all, hadn't she heard from other audience members that Mr. Jane had helped them deal with painful memories and broken childhoods in his private practice? Sally felt ashamed of her actions and promised herself that the next time they met she would be one of those private clients, and she'd pay him twice whatever his asking price was. He would heal her, just as he had healed many of the people sitting around her.

Jane walked back to the stage followed by thunderous applause and the sinking sensation that he'd done something very wrong. When he had peered into Sally's adoring eyes before returning to the spotlight, he'd known her thoughts as truly as if they were his own. She was devoted to him now, another disciple ready to worship at the house of Jane for an exorbitant fee. Jane sighed inwardly and took a few deep breaths to regain his composure before turning around to face the audience. The spotlights glinted off of his silver suit and tie, his smile was eerily genuine and his voice jovial as he asked his followers who would like to be read next. He watched with a mixture of relief and disgust as thousands of hands soared skyward, and the crowd reached a fervor pitch. In the back of his mind a long forgotten song was playing…

_He's got the whole world in His hands_

_He's got a-you and me brother in His hands  
He's got a-you and me brother in His hands  
He's got a-you and me brother in His hands  
He's got the whole world in His hands_

The show had ended on a high note, but Jane's spirits were low. The Sally incident bothered him and drove his thoughts to the point of distraction. Mistakes happened to other people, common people, less intelligent people than Patrick Jane. He couldn't afford foul ups in his line of work. The con only worked as long as the people continued to believe, and the people would only believe if he never gave them a reason not to.

After the show he stood staring at himself in the bathroom mirror and tried to strategize and reason his way back to copacetic. He could keep doing this. Keep lying for money until his daughter was college bound. His family was already wealthy and living well off of the tainted fruit his practice bore, but that rapper his now teenaged daughter listened to was right, "Mo money, mo problems". His wife and child were used to their pampered lifestyle, and he loved them so he could deny them nothing, this meant he had to continue working, for them, always for them.

A mirthless laugh escaped his lips and Jane watched his own face grimace in the mirror. He found it infinitely ironic, and darkly amusing that his wife and child had no idea what inner demons he battled to keep them well heeled. His daughter, once more loyal to him than even his most ardent client, was now thirteen and, like all children her age had decided her father was profoundly un-cool and his job meaningless expect for its role in providing for her material wants. She didn't know exactly what it was her father did for a living, she never had, and as a child it hadn't mattered to her because she'd loved him unconditionally. Then the missed birthdays and empty seats at school plays and piano recitals had started to rack up as the years went by and her father's practice grew. Now all she would say when people asked about her father's work was, "He's away a lot", and there were many conditions that had to be met in order for her to be civil with him.

Jane continued to stare at his reflection for several more beats, and then he was in motion, ransacking the room for the essentials he'd need to make his get away. He paused momentarily from throwing things into a hastily grabbed bag and considered changing his clothes. His clients expected some razz a ma tazz from him and the shiny suits were are far as he was willing to go when conceding to this fact. Still, he had no particular urge to be caught in his daily life in a silver suit. He longed to be able to face clients in his preferred clothing of choice; a sober, three- piece suit, in gray or black; jacket optional. A glance at the clock told him there was no time to switch outfits if he wished to make it out of his room before his after show grace period was up. Soon his manager and the stage director would want a quiet word with him to discuss the "Sally Incident".

So he left immediately, bag in hand, still wearing his flamboyant costume and paused only to trade in his silver wing tips for the battered brown boots he'd worn religiously for years. He told his wife he kept them around to remind him of his humble beginnings and how far he'd come since. He never told her the truth, that he really kept the boots around to remind him that it didn't matter how shiny his suit was, or how smooth his hair, the man on stage, he wasn't the real Patrick Jane, just a glossy mask that hid a soul of real substance. A soul that was increasingly restless and troubled by how the man on the outside made his living.

Jane took the hotel's service stairs to avoid being seen. The help wouldn't tell on him, and his handlers, glossy people like himself, only took the elevator. He bypassed the lobby entirely and followed the stairs straight into the parking garage where his Citroen sat waiting. Jane always experienced a moment of pure pleasure when he spotted his car. It was one of the few indulgent purchases he's allowed himself to make once his practice took off. Everything else went to housing and clothing his wife and child, and whatever was left over went straight into savings and investments. It didn't matter what his wife thought, or how clueless his daughter was, Jane knew he couldn't keep the con rolling into old age. In fact, lately he'd been thinking more and more about retirement at the tender age of forty. He was already rich several times over, and it wasn't like his family needed more money. He knew his wife might prefer for their income to continue to grow, and she would no doubt stud her arguments against his retirement with words of need, as opposed to want, but Jane knew the truth. He was starting to remember the very real difference between a need and a want, and he was inclined to side with necessity, not frivolity, these days.

He nearly laughed out loud at the reflection beaming back at him from the driver's side window as he approached his car. The man smirking back at him looked every inch of frivolous in his shiny suit and Rolex. A casual observer would never suspect him of harboring niggling moral doubts or financial worries. He tore off his jacket and tie before entering his vehicle in the hopes that it would lend his appearance some gravity. With one last glance back at the hotel service exit Jane gunned the engine and sped out of the car park.

It was still early evening and sunny when he left Las Vegas. He had agreed to perform three sold out shows a day in return for a large sum of money from his promoters. Today he'd only completed one show, the "Midday Extravaganza", and he wasn't sure he'd ever go back to Vegas and complete another. It would make his manager crazy, his wife aghast and most certainly mean over time for his lawyer, but Jane was past caring. There had been a time in his life when he'd used his skills to survive hand to fist, and never asked permission to do anything. He'd come and gone as he wished, conned who he could to get by and never said please. He had no urge to be that desperate man again, but he did envy him his freedom. It was, he decided, as the city gave way to dessert in his rear view mirror, very unlike him to take orders from anyone, and he wondered when he'd become so domesticated.

He silently pledged to work on his wife until she saw the value in his ultimate goal; to extricate himself, slowly if need be, from the con. He had investments he could cash in, and he was no where close to poor anyway, quite the opposite actually. The more Jane thought about it the bolder his aspirations became. It didn't matter that he'd just run out on a six week long commitment in Vegas, after all he'd done four weeks. What more did they want from him? His practice could be wound down in the space of a year. He'd cull his client list down to the regulars who could be counted on to support his every decision, and pay him cash no matter how ludicrous his actions. He'd make his wife see reason. It would be better for their marriage, and could only help his strained relationship with their daughter, if he was home more. Yes, he was quite decided on it, Patrick Jane was going straight.

As proof of his resolve Jane turned up the radio and threw his silver tie out of the window. He rummaged about in the glove compartment until he found the long forgotten Ray Ban Wayfarers he'd worn as a younger man. After he slid the sunglasses onto his face he shoved his free hand into his slicked back hair and rubbed until his natural curls sprang free from their sticky confines. When he caught sight of himself in the rear view mirror Jane smiled, and this time he saw no trace of a snake.

_Still earlier that day somewhere between Las Vegas and Tonopah…_

His good time didn't last long. He'd just made it past Nellis Air Force Complex when his cell phone started to ring. He had expected his management to notice his absence and to try and contact him accordingly, but he hadn't worked out yet exactly what he was going to say to them to offset the damage he had caused. Jane didn't like to have important conversations, especially not ones about money and legal contracts, unless he was sufficiently mentally prepared and each word had been carefully chosen to produce the desired effect. Plus, he was a wild man now, and living dangerously. Wild men let their calls go to voice mail. He considered turning his phone off completely, but he wasn't ready just yet to totally sever that connection.

An hour later his phone was still ringing incessantly and Jane made the executive decision to switch it to vibrate only, but he'd continue to check the call display. That was a fair compromise, and he was beginning to suspect he wasn't a man for compromises anyway. But, a conscience was a hard thing to shake once awakened, and while it made him less inclined to continue in his chosen occupation, it also made him soft hearted towards the people who had helped him achieve greatness. Thus, when his Blackberry alerted him to the fact his manager was calling for the fifty-sixth time, Jane decided to answer the phone.

"Hi Bernie."

"Patrick? Where the hell are you?"

Jane adjusted the rear view and made faces at his reflection. "Dunno."

"What do you mean you don't know? How did you get somewhere unknowable? Were you knocked unconscious? Are you hurt? I almost hope you're hurt because there are two thousand angry people in your audience right now and I have no idea what to tell them."

"I'm not hurt. I'm great in fact. I haven't felt this good in awhile."

"Jesus, you're on drugs aren't you? Look Jane, it's no big deal, it happens to a lot of famous personalities. I have several other clients with similar problems. Just tell me where you are, and I'll come get you. We'll tell the crowd you have food poisoning, or I don't know, that you're powers are tapped out from the last show. Then we'll reschedule and Bob's your uncle."

"I don't have an Uncle Bob Bernie. And, I'm not on drugs."

There was a pause in conversation as Bernie Schwartz, agent to the almost famous trades persons who service the stars, let out a long suffering sigh. "So, you're not hurt, you're not cranked out of your head, and I'm guessing you aren't drunk".

"Not drunk."

"Then why pray tell are you not on stage right now?"

"Meh…I didn't feel like it."

"Oh well, that's a perfectly reasonable explanation. Hold on, I'll go tell Mr. Ciccone, the owner of the Palms Hotel and Casino, the man sponsoring your show and, may I remind you, paying you far more than your cheating ass is worth, that you won't be performing tonight because you don't feel like it. I'm sure that will stop him from suing the shirt off of both of us, while breaking our knee caps."

"No one's going to get sued or have their knee caps broken Bernie. Just stay calm. Calm and relaxed-

"Don't pull your mumbo jumbo on me Jane! Don't forget I know what you really are-a two bit con man in a fancy suit!"

Jane rolled his eyes behind his Wayfarers. "If you know exactly what I am Bernie then you know I won't let anyone sue the shirt off you. What haven't I talked my way out of in all the years you've known me?"

Bernie rubbed his temple and nodded his concession. "I know Jane, I know, but this, this means lawyers."

"Lawyers, schmyers…tell them I look forward to doing battle."

"Jesus Christ. We're fucked."

Jane realized he'd overstepped the mark, and worked to reign the conversation in. "No, no Bernie, it's not going to come to that. There's not going to be any legal trouble. Here's what you're gonna do. Are you listening Bernie?"

"No."

"Bernie."

"Fine."

"You're going to tell the audience and Mr. Ciccone that I'm unavailable because I'm tapped out. I finished my show, the show in which Ms. Sally Peters had a bit of a break down-

"Yeah, I meant to tell you congrats on that. Are you hearing my sarcasm Jane? Because that was quite the fuck up my friend."

"And now we're going to use it to our advantage. Listen carefully Bernie. Sally Peters mother was a sadistic witch who tortured her children. Do you know what happens to people like that when they die Bernie?"

Bernie was well aware that Patrick Jane didn't believe in an afterlife so he knew his was the beginning of another masterful con and this fact imbued him with hope. "No Patrick I don't. Why don't you enlighten me?"

"They get worse. They become demonic. They pray on the life force and happiness of their victims, such as Sally, from beyond the grave. And if anyone, like myself, gets in their way they attack."

"I see."

Jane watched the dessert rush past as he free styled. "And you know Bernie, after every show my spiritual receptors are wide open and raw. It's a natural side effect of what I do."

"Of course it is."

"After my show I returned to my hotel room to recover and compose myself for the next performance. At this time I was accosted by the angered spirit of Mrs. Peters looking to seek revenge on myself and Sally for outing her as the evil thing she is. I valiantly battled with the spirit, besting it of course, but not without using considerable stores of strength. Right now I'm vanquished and cut off from the spirit realm, and I couldn't possibly perform."

Bernie looked skyward and both blessed and cursed the day he first met Patrick Jane. "This could actually work."

"It will work Bernie. And, if it doesn't tell Ciccone I know he's faking it with his wife and his mol. Tell him I know what he's up to on those weekend trips with his pal Silvio and it'd be a shame if the world found out. There's no such thing as the Gay Mafia Bernie, it's just something The Republicans made up."

"Jane we can't threaten a man who is Vegas royalty. Not unless you want to wear cement shoes."

"Sure we can. And, it won't come to that, I promise you. Give them the Ma Peters story and be done with it. If any threatening does have to happen, I'll do it myself when I get back."

"And when will that be?"

"I'm not sure."

"Jaaaane."

"Fine. Give me forty-eight hours Bernie. Let me see my family. I've got some things I need to tell them."

"Forty-eight hours? Jane where are you? Are you driving?"

"Yes."

"And you think forty-eight hours is going to get you to Malibu and back with time to chat? Not unless you've got a time machine my friend."

Jane hadn't considered this. Bernie was right. When he'd thrown together his things and made his escape Jane had assumed he'd run to his family, but now he wasn't sure. They didn't feel like the safe haven he needed at this moment. That was troubling, and something he'd have to dwell on later.

"Never mind where I am Bernie. I've got to be at least half ways to Reno now. I can make it to Malibu. Just you watch."

"Look, Jane, you know you're not good with distances, and that contraption of yours, it isn't made for long drives."

"What you talking bout Willis? I'll have you know an armored version of this car saved De Gaulle's life during an assassination attempt. They shot out two tires and it still kept rolling. This car-

"Yeah, yeah I've heard it before. Look Patrick, I know you haven't been sleeping. I'm not sure you should be driving. Listen, I'll feed Ciccone and the crowd the Ma Peters story, but you should stop in Reno. Get a room, relax, do whatever you need to do, deal with this mood and then come back here tomorrow and put on a show."

"No can do Bernie. I want my forty-eight. It's Malibu or bust."

"I'll get you your forty-eight. But Patrick, for God's sake, don't spend the whole night driving. You're not fit for it, obviously."

"I'm fine."

"You're crazy. And it's gonna get dark soon. Promise me you'll pull over in Reno and that you'll call Elizabeth. I'm gonna call her regardless, she should know that her husband's gone nuts."

"Oh no come on Bernie, don't call Liz."

"Then you call her."

"I'll call her."

"In Reno. From a hotel room, preferably before you go to sleep."

"We'll see."

"Patrick!"

"I'll call her Bernie, jeez, get off my jock."

"I don't even care what that means. I'm going to go deal with our sponsor. You deal with your wife."

"Whatever."

"Good bye Jane. You call her, because I'm going to."

With that final promise Bernie disconnected the call, and Jane tossed his phone on the passenger seat. He would call his wife, just like he promised, but not until Reno, after all that was part of the promise too. He turned the radio back up and leaned back. He figured he had at least two hours before Reno. Then he'd consider stopping. Maybe he would get a hotel room like Bernie suggested.

_Two hours past Reno, with nothing left to say…_

It's said the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Jane didn't believe in heaven or hell, but he understood the sentiment contained in that old saying after spending two hours engaged in a protracted argument with his wife. Reno had come and gone, and he'd observed it entirely from the interior of his vehicle. Elizabeth had been angry enough to find out he'd ditched a show. She became livid once he tried to smooth things over by explaining his new life plan. Jane was ashamed to say that at one point they'd devolved to yelling at one another. He'd put an end to that by taking a few deep breaths and pitching his voice down to a more soothing and persuasive octave. He hadn't managed to convince Elizabeth that his plans to retire were sane or doable, but he had promised her they would talk seriously and sensibly once he got home.

His wife had also encouraged him to stop for the night, to sleep on his decision. She, like Bernie, implied that it was just the lack of sleep getting to him, making him think absurd thoughts. Jane was tempted to tell her just how right she was about the insomnia, and how off she was about everything else. He resisted the urge however, because it wouldn't do to antagonize her any further.

_Four miles outside of Auburn, California…or back to where we started, somewhere between Reno and Sacremento on the I-95…_

All he could do now was concentrate on getting back to Malibu. He'd blown through Reno, screaming into his phone and begging his wife to listen to him. It was coming up on midnight and he'd been driving for nearly eight hours. To make matters worse when he'd crossed the state line into Northern California it had started to rain. It occurred to him then that he'd gone entirely the wrong way. He could have made it to Los Angeles much quicker if he'd simply left Vegas and headed for Barstow. If he was really honest with himself, he'd gone in completely the opposite direction from his home, and his show. Thoughts like those were dangerous and useless right now. He'd get to Malibu, even if it hadn't been his intention at first to go there, he'd just take the scenic route.

Not that there was much to see as the rain got heavier the closer he got to Sacremento. At least he figured he was near Sacremento. He hadn't passed a real city in ages, just a bunch of little towns. According to the rain obscured road signs he was passing, another small town, one called Auburn, was just a few miles away. Jane debated stopping. He hated small towns. Lenny Bruce was right, after you saw the cannon in the park there was nothing to do. Small towns reminded him of his misspent youth in a travelling carnival, and Jane loathed reminiscing about the past. To stop or not to stop, that was the question. His body was screaming out for food and rest, but his busy mind was telling him to make it to Malibu as quickly as possible.

At that moment, fate, which Patrick Jane most certainly did not believe in, took the decision out of his hands in the form of a scared animal. He barely had time to brake before the deer shot out into the rain covered road. The Citroen began to hydroplane and Jane no longer worried about hitting the animal, it had pranced off to safety, but he held serious misgivings about his ability to not crash his car. The vehicle spun in circles for what felt, to Jane, like hours and seconds all rolled into one. When it came to rest its nose was pointed not towards Vergas, or Malibu, but Auburn.

Jane rested his head against the steering wheel and tried to steady his breath. When he raised his eyes to peer into the night his headlights were fixed on a road sign that read; Auburn, four miles. Four miles, he could manage four miles. He'd accept whatever accommodations Auburn had to offer, because he wasn't driving any further than four miles tonight. It might not be manly to be frightened off the road by a deer, but Jane wasn't concerned about manliness, he was, as always, concerned about survival. It was better to live to fight another day than to go out in a stupid blaze of glory. Plus, hydroplaning in the boondocks didn't really count as a glorious blaze.

Jane pulled over and called 411. He had no idea where one stayed in Auburn, and he figured an automated list of hotels was better than driving about aimlessly. He absent mindedly dialed the three digits and waited to be connected to a prerecorded voice over.

"Hello?"

Jane blinked. There was a person on the other end of the phone; a real person. He'd thought those had been dispensed with the moment the first cell phone rolled off the production line.

"Hi?"

"Can I help you?"

He honestly didn't know. "Um, I think I dialed the wrong number?"

"This is Auburn Information honey. I'm Susan I work at the police station. I'm dispatch. We don't get a lot of crime here, so I answer all calls, 911, 411, you name it."

"Uh, Okay."

There was a pause for several beats while Susan, "I work at dispatch", tried to determine just what kind of a situation she was in. "Hon, are you okay? Are you injured?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that? No, Susan, I'm not injured. My name's Patrick and I need a place to stay, in Auburn, for the night. Can you help me with that?"

"Oh, well, that depends. Are you cute?" Susan let out a rapturous laugh and then it was Jane's turn to pause.

"Er…

"I'm just kidding hon. You'll want to go to Teresa's place. I mean, there's other places, but you won't get the same service."

"So what's the address of this Teresa's Place?"

"First of all, it's not called Teresa's Place. It's called The Auburn Inn, and are you calling from a cell handsome?"

Jane smiled in spite of it all. "Yes, Susan, I am."

"Then I tell you what, I'm gonna make like AT&T and reach out and touch you. I just texted the directions to Teresa's to the number on my screen. How's that for service? I bet you thought we were too hokey here in Auburn for texting hey Patrick?"

"You caught me."

"Do you think you can find your way?"

Jane peered at the directions flashing across the screen of his Blackberry. They seemed simple enough. How could he get lost in a town of 13,000 people?

"Yeah I'm good."

"Well, I'll give Teresa a call and let her know to expect you. It's pretty late. She should still be manning the bar though."

"The bar?"

"Yes the bar. The Auburn Inn is a fully licensed bar, restaurant and hotel Mr. City Boy. We do get tourists you know."

"My apologies Susan from dispatch. I meant no disrespect to your lovely town. And, thank you, sincerely for all your help. If you don't mind I'm going to try and get in from the rain."

"Ain't that what we're all trying to do honey. You call back if you run into any problems. I'll be here."

"I will. Thank you."

"That's what we're here for."

Jane hung up and set about navigating the Citroen towards The Auburn Inn. It didn't take him long to drive the four miles into town and once he got there the directions Susan had sent him were easy to follow. He was so confident in his ability to find his way around he considered detouring to see if the town had a park, and if it contained a cannon. When in Rome and all that jazz. The incessant staccato of rain on the Citroen's roof reminded him that he needed to get off the road and into a warm bed; preferably after an even warmer meal.

The Auburn Inn was more of a house with a bar attached once he got a good look at it. Despite this, he liked it immediately. The building was quaint, and well kept. He could tell that in daylight the paint job would be white, the shutters red, and the flower boxes a riot of colour. It was a world away from the architectural marvel made of glass and treated lumber that awaited him in Malibu, but it would do.

He parked as close to the entrance as possible and got ready to make a dash through the heavy rain. He surveyed the car's interior and made a rash, and not altogether understandable decision to leave his phone in the glove compartment. He grabbed the small bag containing his toiletries and a change of clothes. With one last glance at the glove compartment he ran from the car and straight Into the Auburn Inn, where unbeknownst to him, he had a date with destiny.

_I'm a lot like you so please  
Hello, I'm here, I'm waiting  
I think I'd be good for you  
And you'd be good for me  
_

_TBC…..in which we meet this world's Lisbon…_


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I wouldn't be in massive student debt if I owned a successful television show. Anyone know where I can get one cheap? The title and the poem Lisbon remembers are from A.S. Byatt's _Possession: A Romance. _ Lyrics are by Weezer.

A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed and all those silent folks who showed their support by reading the story. Without readers a story is like that tree falling in the woods that nobody hears…its existence is debatable.

I decided to give this world's Lisbon shorter hair than in the series because I once saw a photo of Robin Tunney rocking short hair after she shaved her head for _Empire Records_ and she looked amaze-balls. It works on her…truly. I also through in a _Glee_ reference…I'd dare you to find it, but it's super obvious.

EL SCORCHO

Chapter 2: The Kick Galvanic

_You won't talk, won't look, won't think of me  
I'm the epitome of Public Enemy  
Why you wanna go and do me like that?  
Come on down to the street and dance with me_

I'm a lot like you so please  
Hello, I'm here, I'm waiting  
I think I'd be good for you  
And you'd be good for me

_-Rivers Cuomo_

_Auburn, California: Population 13,000 and change…_

It was a slow night at The Auburn Inn, but Teresa Lisbon didn't mind the occasional slow night. Anything more than occasional would be bad for business, but when it was raining so hard she expected to see an ark full of animals flow past her door at any minute, she was glad the usual Friday night crowd had decided to stay home. The only patrons she had to worry about now where the couple sleeping soundly upstairs. They were in town for a wedding and weren't hard to please. As long as their breakfast and supper were ready at the decided upon hour, and the sheets were clean they were content. No one else had been in the restaurant or bar in hours, so Teresa felt justified in taking a moment alone on the front deck to just watch the rain, and inhale the clean scent of the night air.

Her calm reverie was broken by the round of ringing. The phone next to the bar was crying out for her attention. Teresa rolled her eyes and wondered who could be calling her at such an advanced time of night. If the bar had been full she'd have understood. She lived in a small town, and everyone knew each other. It was not unusual, on a busy night, for the phone to ring of the hook as people called to ask who was out that night, if their spouses were drinking away their pay check or to inquire what was being served that night in restaurant.

But the bar was empty, save for herself, and…her father. At least he'd been there when she'd stepped out just moments ago. Surely he couldn't have gotten out without her notice, plus what harm could he come to in five measly minutes? She broke into a light jog and hurried towards the phone, expecting the worst. Once she reached the bar she noticed two things, her father was still in his seat over by the juke box and the call display on the phone read, "Susan at work". That meant Susan was calling from dispatch, and for once, it wasn't about Teresa's father. Why then would Susan call her from her work number? If she was bored, and experiencing the same kind of slow night Teresa was, Susan would have used her cell. Gossiping over the dispatch line was frowned upon. She picked up the phone and prayed she wasn't about to get bad news. She'd watched her father all day, he couldn't have gotten into trouble, that only left her brother Tommy, and as far as she knew he was tucked up at home, waiting for Susan to get off work.

Teresa picked up the phone and took no time for social niceties. "Susan? Is that you? Daddy's here, whatever it is he didn't do it. Is Tommy okay?"

"Calm down girl, this is a business call."

Susan didn't ask why Teresa thought her father might have been the reason for her call. She knew all about Teresa Lisbon and her family. Four years ago Susan "from dispatch" and been Susan Wright, and married to a Los Angeles police officer named Michael. Then he'd gone out one night and gotten himself shot. Four months after she buried him, Susan opened a road map of California, and tried to determine where she was least likely to run into crime, gangs or random violence. She'd circled small towns close to big cities and Auburn's proximity to Sacramento had earned it a bold, red loop from her pen. The next day she'd gone into work at Mike's former HQ, she'd been working dispatch there when they'd met ten years before and asked for a transfer. Anywhere she had circled would do.

Her supervisor was concerned, but understanding, and as it turned out there'd been a position open in Auburn. She was told it was open because no one wanted it. You had to answer all kinds of calls, 411 and 911 while maintaining the communication hub owned by the local police force. No one wanted it, because it sounded like a lot of work up front, and then turned out to be really small town boring.

There wasn't much to do except field calls from lost travelers, and help local people look up out of town numbers. Crimes were rare in Auburn, as where major accidents. None of this bothered Susan, she'd moved to get peace and to escape the constant helpless cries of victims from the other end of the phone line, "Please Miss, help me, I've been raped", "Please Ma'am, my wife, she isn't breathing". She couldn't rescue them, or even change what had happened, she could only talk them through those agonizing moments while they waited for the cops, the paramedics or the fire fighters. Those moments, they were excruciating, and after Mike had died, she hadn't had the fight in her anymore to keep up and find the right words to say so that she got the information the police needed, and kept the caller calm.

She'd been prepared for culture shock when she'd reached Auburn with her five year old son Terence. In their own neighborhood in Los Angeles they could go days without seeing a white person. In Auburn, not so much, and Susan often joked that the town's black population had doubled the moment she and Terence arrived. So, the white bread nature of the town didn't surprise her. She didn't break a sweat when Terence had trouble adjusting at first, she'd expected there to be bumps like that in the road, and her matter of fact approach to dealing with it meant her son was now a happy boy with lots of friends.

What had caught Susan off guard was Tommy Lisbon, Teresa's younger brother.

She'd been a widowed woman of thirty-three when twenty-six year old Tommy had started sniffing around her door. Susan had hired him to do some work around her house, and she'd come to find that Tommy had intentions that lay beyond remodeling her bathroom. Falling in love again hadn't been part of her plan, especially falling in love with a white boy. But, there'd been no denying Tommy, or the loving welcome she got from his family, and once her renovations had been completed she not only had a new set of stairs, but a live in boyfriend. A live in boyfriend who at that moment was at home, watching television, no doubt with her now nine year old son on his knee, even though Terence should have been in bed hours ago. She informed Teresa of her suspicions to calm the other women down.

"So, if it's not Dad and you and Tommy are okay what's up? What do you mean this is a business call?"

Susan surveyed her nails. She'd need them done again soon. "Well, I just had the most interesting call of the night, which isn't saying much, because this town is dead tonight, and it pertained to you."

Teresa made a face at the receiver. "How could it have anything to do with me? I've been here all night, and so has Dad. You say Tommy's fine and I'm guessing Marcus didn't show up in town on a whim."

Marcus was the middle child of the Lisbon family. He'd done what Teresa and Tommy hadn't managed and left town at eighteen for college. He was now a successful accountant in Sacramento with a pretty wife and two kids.

"Nope, none of the above, but I did get you some business. An out of towner called in. I figure the rain became too much for him. He sounds like a city boy, probably from my old stomping ground, L.A. He needed a place to stay and I gave him your name."

Teresa tried not to feel disappointed. Susan had done the right thing. The Auburn was technically an inn, and it was her job to feed and house people in return for money. But, it was also really late and really wet out, and Teresa had hoped her night from there on in would involve nothing more than putting her father down for the night and taking a long, hot soak in the tub.

She rallied her spirits, and made her voice sound bright and thankful. "Thanks Susan. I could do with the business, things have been slow tonight. Do you have any idea when this road weary traveler will arrive?"

"Probably soon, Sugar. He wasn't far outside of town when I was talking to him. You've got fifteen, maybe twenty minutes."

"Shit, I didn't make up a room today because I had no bookings beside the wedding couple."

"Whatever girl, your place is spotless."

"I know, all the rooms are clean, they just haven't been used in a bit. I prefer to put new sheets on the bed if someone's confirmed rather them have them sleep on clean, but two week old, sheets."

"Well, he wasn't confirmed, and honestly, what can he expect at one in the morning?"

"I know, I know, thanks again, I'm gonna go and get some linens out before the Mystery Man shows up."

Susan glanced at the clock. Her shift would be over soon, she was working swing. "You want me to come over after I get off and help you close up the bar?"

"No, no you go home to your family."

"You're my family too now."

"I know. But, tomorrow's Saturday and you don't want to be tired on Terence's day off school. He'll have things he wants to do with you and Tommy bright and early."

Susan smiled at the thought of her son. "Don't I know it. Terence is a good boy though, he'd understand that Mommy had to stay up late and help Auntie Teresa."

Now it was Teresa's turn to smile. "I know he would understand, but he shouldn't have to. I'll be fine, you go home. You work hard too."

"Alright, maybe we'll stop by tomorrow and have some lunch."

"Please do. Bye now."

"Bye Sweetie."

Teresa replaced the receiver in its cradle and readied herself to get down to business.

"Dad?" She addressed the bar's lone occupant and waited for the mumbled response that would signal he'd understood her. "Dad, I've got to get a room ready. You stay here and finish your whiskey okay? I'll get you settled away after our guest arrives alright?"

Her father raised bewildered eyes from his glass. "S'ok, Tess, s'alright."

She had to take him at his word. There was no time to run around locking all the doors from the outside.

Teresa left the bar and walked into the porch. For her entire life the porch had been the entrance to, and divider between, her family's business and their home. Once inside the porch a person had three options, well technically four options, they could go up the stairs that led to the guest rooms, follow the adjacent hallway into the family residence, go straight into the restaurant and bar, or turn around and leave. People rarely chose the second and fourth options. Of course a few guests had strayed into the family's small, but comfortable inner sanctum, but such incidents were sporadic, and Teresa could count on one hand how many times it had happened in her thirty-five years.

From the porch it was a quick march up the stairs to the two floors that held guest rooms. Teresa took the steps two at a time in order to get to the linen closet before her new guest showed up. Susan had mentioned her guest would be a man, so she chose simple, navy, cotton sheets and carried them to what she considered the nicest room on the third floor. Of course her idea of nice, and a well-heeled, city man's idea of nice would probably turn out to be two different things, but well, she had nothing else to offer and her lodger had no other options as well. Not unless he wanted to try the roach motel on the edge of town.

Plus, Teresa really couldn't see how anyone would find fault with the Auburn Inn. It was a bed and breakfast, with a little more than breakfast, and really very well maintained, in her opinion. She'd dedicated herself to keeping the family business running after her brother's had left home, and she felt she had quite the touch when it came to interior decorating. Tommy had become a contractor, and he'd taught Teresa how to wield various tools well enough that the two of them could handle any renovations the inn needed. Marcus wasn't around physically, but he made sure the inn's books and financial situation were in the black.

Teresa pushed open the door to a nice, front facing suite and surveyed her surroundings. The floors were a lovely, gleaming hardwood and the colour palate was neutral. The paint she'd chosen for the wall had been called Burnt Sienna, or as Tommy referred to it, "reddish-brown". The bedspread was striped with gold- tinged beige, and the same reddish brown from the walls. She took a moment to decide if the navy sheets clashed or not, but settled on telling herself it was a nice pop of colour against the red and gold. The furniture was all made of the same dark wood, and the fixtures in the attached bathroom were especially nice. She'd been able to afford high end fixtures and appliances for her suites because she'd installed everything herself, or with Tommy's assistance.

She tore the clean, but to her mind musty sheets, from the bed and replaced them with the new ones. Then she went in search of fresh towels for the bathroom. She'd only just made it to the linen closet when the first clap of thunder sounded throughout the house. Teresa jumped with surprise at the sound, and then she thought of her father. She'd need to make sure he was okay, that the thunder and lightening hadn't spooked or provoked him. But, she also had to ensure the room was ready for her guest. Indecision tore at her for a few seconds, and with a final look at the towels she ran with them into the guest room and tossed them on the bed. For all her new guest knew clean towels at the end of the bed was protocol. As she stood by the bed another flash of lightening tore through the sky and lit up the room's window which faced out to the front lawn and drive way.

Before Teresa could get out of the room, and down to her father, something caught her eye. A car was approaching. It had to be the mystery guest. Now things were more complicated. She'd need to greet the wayward traveler and check in on her father. Despite her immediate responsibilities something made her pause in the window as she observed the now parked car. It looked somehow vintage, yet futuristic. She'd never seen a car like that before, and she couldn't tell if it would be blue, white or silver in the daylight. Then she noticed the driver. She couldn't make out his features, but she could tell he was hesitating about his decision to leave the car. She would have guessed it was the rain, which was coming down in sheets, that was making him reluctant to leave his space car, but then she noticed his outstretched arm. It seemed to be going back and forth between the steering wheel and glove compartment, as if the driver couldn't decide whether to take something with him or not.

Suddenly, his indecision came to an end, and he exited the car just as another flash of lightening lit up the sky. Teresa gasped when she saw his pants. They appeared to be silver. Was the space car being driven by a space man? Teresa was reminded of astronauts making their first steps on a strange planet, except this one wasn't taking slow, lumbering jumps, he was running as fast as he could from the rain. This thought snapped her out of her reverie and she too broke into a run. If she didn't get down stairs in the next fifteen seconds her guest would be left standing in his wet clothes, and probably displeased with her service.

When she reached the top of the stairs she heard the door slam open, and heavy footsteps sounded in the porch. Somehow, she managed to pick up speed and began her decent down the stairs. At approximately the sixth stair from the bottom, as her footing gave way, and Teresa learned why her mother had always scolded her for running indoors. She scrabbled desperately to regain her equilibrium but it was no use. She was going to fall, on stairs, and probably injure herself badly. Why? Why now?

Her panic was replaced by surprise as something warm, wet and solid connected with her body.

Later, she could remember little about the moment she first laid eyes on Patrick Jane. The memories she did have were made up mostly of sensations, and jumbled visuals. She could feel herself falling, then a crash as she came in contact not with the floor, but his body. Next there was a set of eyes staring into her face, her soul it seemed, they were green, but would look blue from afar, and she didn't know why she thought that.

But, what she remembered most was the thunder and lightening. It rattled through the house one more time, the moment her body crashed into his, and she wondered if the lightening had hit the house. It seemed to have traveled through the ground, or the air, or simply his arms, resulting in sparks of electricity wherever her body met his.

Did he feel it? How could he not? She figured both of them should have been scorched, with their hair standing on end, and smoke wafting from their ears.

The words from a long forgotten poem, one she'd read in a novel left behind by a British guest wafted, unbidden, through her mind…

_And is love then more  
Than the kick galvanic  
Or the thundering roar  
Of Ash volcanic  
Belched from some crate  
Of earth-fire within?  
Are we automata  
Or Angel-kin?_

"Are you okay?"

The question was asked by an impossibly soothing voice. She could only nod frantically and stammer out a laboured, "yes".

His face broke into a wide grin once she confirmed her well-being, and it was like sunshine in the midst of a storm.

"Well, that's good, because honestly, I thought you were done for when you started to slip. Looks like I got here just in time."

Again, Teresa could only nod as she allowed him to steady her in an upright position. Once she was solid on her own two feet he withdrew his arms from her body, and the sparks went with him. She shook herself off, and quickly felt embarrassed. Surely she'd just imagined the electricity. One smile from a handsome man and she was acting like a fool.

Then all thoughts of her own foolishness were usurped by the sight of her new guest's outfit. She'd forgotten about the silver pants in her rush and tumble down the stairs. Now they were glaringly obvious. Up close and wet, they were, well, hideous, and hysterical all at once. Adrenaline from the fall, and the subsequent rescue, was still coursing through her veins, and it caused a bark of laughter to emerge from her mouth. Once the floodgates were open she couldn't contain her laughter. She was horrified with herself, but she couldn't stop. Luckily, her guest didn't seem to mind, in fact he seemed to be struck with a mild case of hysteria himself.

They stood there, face-to-face, she on the bottom of the stairs and he at their base, laughing uncontrollably until she finally managed to stutter out some words. "I-I-I'm sorry. B-b-but, your p-p-pants, they're s-s-silver."

This statement only made him laugh harder, and there was a genuine smile on his face when he replied, "You should have seen my tie!"

Her eyes widened with disbelief, and she went silent at the thought of a tie even more heinous than his pants. "No, I don't believe you…really?"

"Really." He confirmed her worst fears, and stuck out his hand in greeting. "I'm Patrick. Patrick Jane."

"Tess, I mean Teresa. My name is Teresa. Teresa Lisbon." She cursed her fumbled reply while reaching out for his hand.

There it was again, that stinging snap when they shook hands. She wondered if he was wearing one of those novelty rings that gave off shocks on contact. But why would anyone wear something like that in a rain storm, or at all? It was a preposterous thought, but then he was wearing silver pants. One glance at his face however, told her he wasn't wearing a gag ring, and he was equally surprised by the burn between them.

He'd actually stuck his fingers in his mouth as if sucking on a cut. He removed them and spoke. "Wow. That was some charge hey? I guess you picked up some static on your way down the stairs."

She peered down at the carpeted stairs. "I guess so."

What other explanation could there be?

He extended his hand carefully towards her once more. "May I?"

She nodded dumbly and took his hand. This time there was only warmth, no pain. He helped her down off the stairs, and then dropped her hand. The severed connection reminded her that he was there for a reason, he needed a room, and she was neglecting her duties.

"Mr. Jane, I'm sorry where are my manners? Welcome to the Auburn Inn. I'm your proprietress, Teresa, and I'm sure you want to get out of those wet clothes. You're probably hungry as well. Why don't you go upstairs to your room, and I'll put together some food for you. Are you okay with grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup? I make a mean grilled cheese."

She was rambling. He seemed amused. "It's okay Teresa. I'm hungry enough to eat dirt, plus I'm not like the other people who come here, you don't have to be so on for me. That's the worst part of this job for you isn't it? Constantly having to fake your cheeriness with the customers. You don't mind providing a service. It's being made to feel like a servant that bothers you. Am I right?"

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish. How did he know? Was he psychic?

He anticipated her question before it came. "No, I'm not psychic. I'm just paying attention. Think nothing of it. I meant no harm. A shower and a change of clothes would be great. And I'd trade my arm for a sandwich right now. So thank you, very much for your hospitality. You'll make enough food for yourself as well, yes? I'd like some company and I bet you haven't eaten in hours."

"I…um, okay." She could think of nothing else to say.

A loud crashing sound from the bar caused them both to start, and Teresa suddenly remembered the other person who was still awake in the house. Oh God, what had her father gotten up to now? She stared helplessly at her new guest, and then turned on her heels and made for the bar.

"I'm sorry!" she called over her back. "I'll be right back I promise. It's my father, he, well, he, I'll just see to him. Just a moment please!"

The sight that greeted her inside the bar caused her heart to drop. Her father had obviously been set off by the lightening and had now slipped into one of his more delusional moods. He had piled furniture up against the service door of the bar, and he was screaming about the alien invaders while waving a bottle of whiskey around.

"Daddy!" Teresa ran to his side. "Daddy, give me the bottle. There's no aliens. Please Daddy, look at me."

Her father's eyes were red and glazed over with alcohol, and dementia. "Tess, there's people outside, people comin, ah take me away. Gotta stop em Tess."

She cringed. He was difficult enough to control on a good day, and now he was drunk. She tried to grab him, but only succeeded in knocking the bottle of whiskey from his grasp. It crashed to the floor, spilling its contents and creating more work for her.

"Jesus!" She didn't mean to curse. She really didn't. She knew it wasn't her father's fault, well not anymore, not since the dementia. "Daddy, please, I just-

"Can I be of assistance?"

She whirled around to see Patrick Jane standing a few feet away. "Oh, God, Mr. Jane, I'm sorry. This is my father, not a drunken local. Please, don't worry about it. Just go upstairs and I'll call you when your food's ready."

Jane simply took a few steps forward and closed the distance between them. "Let me help Teresa. I can help. And please, call me Patrick." He raised his hands in surrender towards her father and walked closer to the older man. "Tell me his name Teresa."

"You don't have to-

"His name please, Teresa."

"It's Colin."

Jane smiled and moved closer still to the confused man. "Hello Colin, I'm Patrick."

Teresa's watched as her father gave the stranger a once over. "Who are you? Why you wearin' sh-shliver pants? You an alien?"

This brought a genuine smile to Jane's face, and Teresa thought he could probably tame lions with that grin.

"I'm not an alien Colin. But, you're right I am wearing shiny pants. Would you like to see something else shiny?" Jane asked, as he removed his wrist watch. He held it aloft in front of Colin's face. "The watch, it's very shiny isn't it?" His voice became low, steady and commanding. "Look at the watch Colin."

Teresa could only stare wide eyed as Mr. Jane, or Patrick as he insisted, began swinging the watch back and forth in front of her father's gaze.

"Concentrate on the watch Colin. Concentrate. Watch it moving back and forth, back and forth, back and forth." Patrick stood right in front of her bewildered father now. "The more the watch moves the more relaxed you get Colin. Focus on the watch. Watch it, feel it. Feel calm and relaxed, calm and relaxed. It's so shiny, and it feels so good to be calm and relaxed, doesn't it?"

Colin didn't hesitate to provide a slurred answer. "Yesh."

Patrick continued to smile and talk while approaching Teresa's father. Suddenly, he reached out with his free hand, and grasped Colin's shoulder. "I'm going to count to three Colin, and then you're going to go to sleep. You want to go to sleep don't you? You can't fight it, you're too relaxed. Calm and relaxed. Here we go, one…two…three."

On three Teresa saw him squeeze her father's shoulder, and then the older man crumpled. She rushed forward, but Patrick was already there, hoisting her now unconscious father over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes.

He turned towards her, huge grin still in place despite the considerable weight he was supporting. "Where do you want him?"

She couldn't speak at first, and he mistook her silence for anger.

"It's okay. He's just asleep I swear. He'll wake up whenever the booze wears off and there'll be no permanent damage."

Teresa shook her head, and recovered enough to reply. "Um, follow me. We'll put him in his bedroom, I guess. I, how…how did you do that? What are you Mr. Jane?"

"Patrick, I'm Patrick. And, all in good time my dear. Let's get your father settled shall we?"

"Right…of course."

She led him back towards the porch, and then into the hallway that led to her home. Guests were never allowed into the residential part of the inn, but she figured this time warranted an exception. They filed into her father's room, and she pulled back the covers on the old man's bed so that Patrick could unburden himself. He lowered her father from his shoulders as delicately as he could, but the landing was a little inelegant. She couldn't be sure if it was her father or Patrick that grunted during the effort. Patrick reached for the covers before she could collect herself to do so, and that was when she saw the flash of gold on his left hand. He was married. And, if the reverent way he drew the blanket up to her father's chin meant anything, he probably had kids too.

Her first thought was to chastise herself for having felt such attraction, such a spark for a married man. Her second thought was that it didn't matter. It wasn't like anything could have come of a chance meeting in her establishment. He was a good looking man, and she had noticed, that was all, nothing more. Her third, and most traitorous thought, reminded her that he'd felt the electricity between them too. She'd watched him shove his fingers in his mouth like he'd been burned.

It didn't matter. The ring made him off limits. He'd made a vow, and she would respect that. Plus, she wasn't looking to meet anyone right now. She had plans for herself, big plans, and they didn't involve meeting Mr. Right and settling down.

"So, how about that sandwich?"

She jumped at the sound of his voice, and cursed herself again. "Yeah, yeah, of course, you must be starving. I'm sorry about the diversion." She indicated to her father who was snoring softly on his bed.

Patrick gave her a reassuring grin. "Not at all. It's nice to actually help for once."

She made a face. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. I'm just thinking out loud. Sorry. Listen, why don't you get the soup on, so to speak, and I'll clean up and meet you in the bar?"

"Sure, yeah, that's sounds good." She led him out of the room, and back to the porch.

"Your room is two floors up. It's at the end of the hall on the left." She handed him a key from the numbered board on the porch wall. "Number seven. Come down whenever you're ready."

"Thank you." He took the proffered key, but made no move to leave. Instead, he continued to grin maniacally at her.

"Well," she always felt the need to fill uncomfortable silences with words. "I can't believe the Schuesters slept through the thunder and lightening. They're the only other guests I have tonight. A married couple, they're actually in Auburn for a wedding." She felt unbearably awkward mentioning marriage and weddings now that she'd seen his ring, but she couldn't seem to stop talking. "The wife, Emma, she seems really jumpy. Her husband, um, Will, he told me when he made the reservation that she has a real thing with cleanliness and germs, so I made sure their room was spotless, but she still went over it with a discerning eye and a rubber glove. I guess, I just thought the lightening would spook her, so maybe be quiet when you pass their floor. Okay, well, that's it."

He made a contemplative face. "Interesting."

"Yeah, well it's not everyday you meet a serious germaphobe."

"No. That's not what's interesting."

"It's not?"

"Nope. I find it interesting that you're blushing."

Her eyes widened in fear and he began to chuckle. Her only thought was of escape. "I'll leave you to it then." She left him standing in the porch, still laughing, while she retreated to the kitchen.

Jane watched her until she disappeared from sight, and then he bounded up the stairs, travel bag in hand, heedless to her warning about skittish wives with obsessive compulsive disorder. Besides, he had a feeling that Mr. and Mrs. Schuester weren't sleeping anyways. He paused briefly on the landing between the second and third floor. He smirked as he listened to the breathy noises coming from the other end of the hallway. Obviously, Will Schuester had learned how to distract his wife from her fears.

Jane left the amorous couple to their own designs, and clattered up the remaining stairs and into his room. He tossed his bag on the bed and scooped up the fresh towels Teresa had left there upon his arrival. A shower, and dry clothes, that's what he needed now.

The lights in the bathroom were bright and encased by crystal fixtures which shot rainbows of every reflective surface, including his wedding band. He removed his clothes, and stepped into the shower feeling a little guilty. He'd fought with his wife today, and flirted shamelessly with his proprietress. Of course, he had arguments with his wife before, and it had meant nothing in the end. It wouldn't be a marriage without some rows, and they'd no doubt do it again, long after the Auburn Inn and Teresa Lisbon had faded from his memory. Flirting was nothing new to him as well. He and his wife both knew he was a big flirt, and that it meant nothing. It was just his way, and part of the con.

But then, he wasn't trying to con Teresa, and while he'd chatted up many women in his long, and some what sordid career it had never resulted in a feeling like he'd gotten tonight, as if he'd touched a downed power line with his bare hands. He soaped up his hair and turned to face the oncoming spray, hoping it would cleanse him of any impure thoughts. It was one thing for him to start feeling lousy about his work, but it was another to let it affect his marriage. What he and Liz had, it was sacrosanct. He was already hurting people in his professional life, he wouldn't do the same to the ones who lived in his home. The fact he conducted himself faultlessly in his private life was what allowed him to con people in his professional life without feeling like a total shyster.

Jane worked to convince himself that what he'd felt on those stairs was just the result of too much static electricity in the air, and Teresa's close encounter with the carpet on the steps. He was adamant in his belief that there was no such thing as magic, destiny or love at first sight. There was lust at first sight, certainly, and he'd felt it the moment he'd first clapped eyes on his wife. It stood to reason that such an occurrence wouldn't happen just once in a person's lifetime. The difference was that as a married man he knew he'd never experience the deepening of emotional attachment that occurs after that initial lust with anyone but his wife. He could look, but he would never touch.

He exited the shower, and as he reached for a towel he caught sight of his reflection. It was reproving him again, because he had in fact touched, hadn't he? He rolled his eyes and toweled off. He was being ridiculous. He'd reached out and grabbed Teresa initially only because she was falling. He replayed the moment they met in his mind, but it seemed that for once his photographic memory was failing him. He could only remember flashes and feelings.

There was the first, panicked moment where he'd entered an unfamiliar home and saw a woman very near to disaster. He'd gone to her aid without thinking, and he'd have done the same for anyone else. His next memory was made up not of images but sensations. The minute his body had collided with hers it had felt like he'd stuck his fingers in a socket. There were sparks and spangles of light culminating in a pair of huge green eyes, framed by short, pixie- like, dark hair. It suited her he mused. Not all women could pull of such a short hairstyle and still look feminine, but Teresa did. In fact, she looked like some sort of woodland nymph who was not just falling down the stairs, but out of a fairy tale. He wrapped the towel around his waist and berated himself for thinking such thoughts. She was pretty, and like all fair maidens he suspected she could do with some rescuing, but it wasn't his place to play the hero.

Jane pulled on his clothes and quickly toweled off his hair. He'd go downstairs and share a meal with her, and try to control his ingrained urge to flirt. He wasn't selling anything tonight, and he could tell from her blushes earlier that she had no intention of buying anyway. They'd eat, and talk, and maybe he could figure out a perfectly harmless way to help her. Then he'd get some much needed sleep and return to his family. With any luck Liz would be calm after their fight, and open to a frank discussion about his future business plans. Then he could get to work on closing down his practice, and sleeping at night without feeling guilty.

By the time he reached the stop of the stairs Jane was his usual jovial, confident self again, and he was actually looking forward to the coming meal. He'd convinced himself, as most of us are wont to do, that he was the one in charge of his destiny. It meant there was no one, save himself, to blame for the triumphs, or the failings in his life, but he infinitely preferred that to the alternative. A world, in which he was not in control of his actions, and his future, was a world in which he didn't want to live. With that final thought Jane began to quietly descend the stairs in search of his hostess, and her promised grilled cheese sandwiches.

_I'm a lot like you so please  
Hello, I'm here, I'm waiting  
I think I'd be good for you  
And you'd be good for me_

How stupid is it? I can't talk about it  
I gotta sing about it and make a record of my heart  
How stupid is it? Won't you give me a minute  
Just come up to me and say hello to my heart  
How stupid is it?  
For all I know you want me too  
And maybe you just don't know what to do  
Or maybe you're scared to say: "I'm falling for you"

_TBC….dinner and a floor show to follow…_


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Canada Student Loans wouldn't be so up on my bra strap if I owned _The Mentalist_. _El Scorcho _lyrics are by Weezer, more specifically Rivers Cuomo and the late, great, Marvin Gaye wrote _Trouble Man_.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and anyone who read and didn't. I'm just glad you came to visit even if you wished to remain silent.

EL SCORCHO

Chapter 3: Trouble(d) Man

_I'm a lot like you so please  
Hello, I'm here, I'm waiting  
I think I'd be good for you  
And you'd be good for me._

_-Rivers Cuomo_

_I come up hard, baby  
But now I'm cool  
I didn't make it, sugar  
Playin' by the rules._

_-Marvin Gaye_

_The Auburn Inn, after two am and before the storm breaks…_

Teresa set two shiny skillets on top of her equally shiny, professional grade stove. There was only one kitchen in the Auburn Inn and it had served clientele and family alike since the days when her mother was acting proprietress. Of course the appliances and fixtures had been updated since her mother's time. The tragedy of her mother's death had resulted in a large insurance pay out that had allowed Teresa to remodel the kitchen several times over. No amount of money would ever make up for the loss of a cherished parent, but at least Teresa could maintain her mother's business for posterity. As she watched butter melt across the surface of a skillet Teresa allowed herself a few seconds to ache for her mother. Once the cool yellow squares had dissolved she sent her pain along with it. She had a guest waiting for food, and there was no time to dwell on the past.

Since her mother's death she'd only allowed herself tiny moments to grieve, at rare intervals, while she performed the mindless chores of running the inn. She could cry while laundry spun noisily in the dryer, or while she chopped onions. The former camouflaged the sound of her sobbing and the latter gave her an excuse to let lose the waterworks. Moping went with mopping. Anger could be worked out during a renovation. Nothing satisfied her rage more than taking a sledgehammer to her old cabinets. But these times were fleeting and isolated. Teresa Lisbon was not a victim or a sissie, and she refused to behave like either.

Ruminating on, and mourning over her mother's death, to the detriment of all else wasn't an option. The inn needed daily tending and she worked around the clock to ensure the success of her business. Of course, she hadn't always been a working woman. When her mother died Teresa was only fifteen. Up until then she had always done chores around the inn, but they'd never been enough to interrupt her school work or her social life. That all changed with her mother's death. Everything had changed.

Her father, once a loving family man, had turned to alcohol to numb his grief. Tommy, who had been only ten when his mother passed, became a little hellion who couldn't be bribed or punished into behaving. At thirteen Marcus already displayed the perfect, notice-me-please behavior of a middle child. Grief made him even more diligent and determined to impress. Unfortunately, his only remaining parent was too drunk to pay any attention to his efforts, and eventually Marcus became reserved and resentful. He channeled all of his energy into getting out of Auburn and into an Ivy League university. Stanford came calling once Marcus graduated high school, and Teresa had watched with envious eyes as her baby brother took his golden ticket to freedom.

She'd always wanted to go to university, get out of Auburn and make something of herself. But, with a drunk for a father, two troubled brothers to raise and a business to run Teresa knew it would be impossible to make that dream come to fruition. So, she did the next best thing, she kept her mother's business alive. The amount of work required allowed her to ignore, or redirect any anger she might feel over the whole situation. She put so much effort in her business didn't just survive, it thrived. There'd never be a lot of money left over, almost everything had to go into the maintenance of the inn, but she was never in the red, and that counted for something.

That didn't mean Teresa enjoyed her work all the time. Patrick Jane had been right when he'd pointed out that she hated being treated like a servant. She was a reserved, proud and somewhat haughty person. Tommy and Marcus might even call her snobbish and bossy, but certainly not when she was within earshot for fear of their own safety. Usually her work was enough to distract her from any ungrateful feelings she might harbour towards her family and customers. Still, there were times, like tonight, when a lump of butter, or a handsome man, had captured her attention and she became sidetracked enough to allow the little green monster called jealousy to turn her eyes even greener. At those times she resented her family, her customers and the tremendous amount of work she did to keep the inn running.`

Teresa added bacon to the second skillet and it popped and cracked like her emotions. Her inner child came out to play and whined in her ear that it wasn't fair that all of the men in her family got to do as they liked while she ran the family business. Her father had spent the last twenty years in an alcoholic stupor, while Tommy took life at his own hectic pace, and marched to the beat of several different drummers. He never took no for an answer when he wanted something, and his relationship with Susan evidence of this fact. Marcus had gone to college, started a family, and ran a successful accounting practice. He now lived the white, picket fence dream in Sacramento.

Teresa envied her men folk's ability to come and go as they pleased. The petty side of her yearned to have Tommy's devil may care attitude and Marcus' success. A tiny part of her, the part she kept hidden even from herself, was jealous of their relationships. Tommy had Susan and Terrence, and Teresa was sure someday soon there'd be an addition to their makeshift family. Marcus was married with two children, a boy and a girl-one of each- of course, because her little brother did everything perfectly. Even her father had been married and brought children into the world, though in the end he'd failed them all miserably.

Teresa had no time for dating, at least that's what she told herself. The truth was more complex. Auburn itself didn't offer her many eligible bachelors, just men she'd known as boys in high school. None of them interested her in any particular way. Even the nice, attractive ones didn't do it for her. She sighed at this thought and turned on the slow cooker to reheat the soup of the day. The cooker sputtered to life and bubbled until its top nearly blew. Teresa wondered if she'd ever meet a man who made her boil over like that. Her thoughts immediately flew to room number seven upstairs and she felt a blush the color of her tomato soup stain her cheeks. Okay, so maybe she'd met an interesting man, but she wanted to meet one that wasn't married with suspected children.

She dealt with the personal guilt inspired by coveting a married man the way she dealt with all her emotions. She channeled them into labor, and set about slicing bread, cheese and the now cooked bacon for sandwiches. As she chopped she reasoned with herself. It wasn't like she wanted Patrick Jane, the man. It was the mystery and adventure he represented that she longed for. She didn't know much about him, but his actions, his car, his Rolex and his flashy pants suggested that he led a life quite different from her own. He was a stranger in town, and an enigma to boot. Add that to the dark and stormy night he'd arrived on, coupled with his movie star looks and of course she was drawn like a fly to honey. _I don't want him_, Teresa thought ruefully, and probably a little dishonestly, _I just want to get out of here. Take me with you Space Man_.

She knew her thoughts had taken a turn towards cruel and petty, but lately her work couldn't subsume her need to flee Auburn and get on with her own life. Not since the arrival-from UCLA, and several other schools- of her acceptance letters. They were all hidden under the cash register in the bar, so that she could take them out during long nights and just stare at them reverently. Five little golden tickets for her to gaze at while dreaming about a better life, well, not better, her own life wasn't terrible, just a different life, one based on her own needs and wants for a change.

"Not that it matters," she mumbled aloud while buttering bread for the grill cheese sandwiches. "I can't afford school…and who's going to run this place? I'm like Cinder-fucking-rella before the ball, except I'll never get enough work done to go. And-

Her frustrated rant was interrupted as soon as it began by the sound of music coming from the bar. Surely her father wasn't up again? The jukebox in the lounge was for public use, but generally Colin sat next to it like a sentry guard and dictated what would and would not be played while pounding back whiskey. Most people in town knew this, and her regulars had given up trying to use the machine themselves. Instead they plunked their coins down on Colin's table and made requests. It was impossible to work around him because Colin was always the first at the bar in the afternoons, and the last to leave at night. If someone did use the machine while he was otherwise engaged they could expect to be met with drunken rage once he returned. That meant only someone from out of town, or someone who could be reasonably sure her father was not going to wake up any time soon, would dare operate the juke box without Colin present.

Teresa made an exasperated sound that echoed the one often made by Bernie Schwartz and Elizabeth Jane. Then, like her unknown compatriots she mumbled, "Patrick".

She assembled the sandwiches, but didn't drop them into the skillet. Something told her it was best to investigate just what her guest was up to. The smile Patrick had been wearing all night had an air of mischief to it, and Teresa wasn't sure why, but it made her suspect he found trouble often, even when he wasn't looking for it, and the last thing she needed was for her father to wake up and cause another scene. She turned down the burners and the soup before walking, as quietly as she could, into the bar.

The sight that greeted her there was equal parts amusing and sexy. Patrick had shed his silver pants, but was dressed no less formally than before. He was still in a suit, but it was comprised of charcoal pinstripes, and a pale blue oxford shirt. It boggled Teresa's mind that anyone should wish to wear a three piece suit, sans jacket, at such an advanced hour of night, or early hour of morning depending on how you looked at it. The man was wearing a waistcoat for Christ sakes.

He was also dancing, and if she wasn't mistaken, and closer, silent, inspection told her she wasn't, there was some vigorous lip synching going on. His back was to her as he performed his little show for the juke box, and he was clutching a Heineken in one hand. It appeared the bottle served two purposes, transporting beer into Patrick's mouth when he wasn't singing, while acting as a microphone when he was. Teresa wondered briefly if he might be drunk, but then tossed that assumption aside quickly. He'd only been down here for twenty minutes tops, as he'd clearly showered and changed. Unless he really was an alien, and this was his first day on Earth, and his first beer there was no way he was anywhere close to intoxicated.

Teresa knew the right thing to do would be to alert Patrick to her presence, but he'd already broken a few rules himself, including beer theft and juke box tampering. So, she felt little remorse about her decision to simply watch him. Besides he wasn't a bad dancer, and the rear view was nice. She smirked to herself and let the song wash over her. It was Marvin Gaye to be sure, but not his usual fare. The lyrics seemed to contain no references to "lovin", "getting it on" or anything close to making love down by the fire. Despite the song's obscurity Patrick seemed to know all the words.

_I __come up hard, baby__  
__But now I'm cool__  
__I didn't make it, sugar__  
__Playin' by the rules_

_I come up hard, baby__  
__But now I'm fine__  
__I'm checkin' trouble, sugar__  
__Movin' down the line_

Patrick shimmied away from the juke box, but he still didn't turn to face her, nor did he notice her presence. He seemed to be enjoying himself thoroughly, and Teresa, for her own amusement considered running upstairs and waking Will Schuester. She had a slight suspicion that he would enjoy this display. When Will had told her, over one of her expertly prepared breakfasts, that he was not only a Spanish teacher, but a show choir director, she pictured the young teacher inspiring random acts of song and dance wherever he went like a Disney princess; a manly, handsome, and clearly into girls, Disney princess.

Just when she thought it couldn't get more embarrassing for the man in front of her, he started to sing along with Marvin.

_I come up hard, baby__  
__But that's okay, cause__  
__Trouble man__  
__Don't get in the way_

_I come up hard, baby__  
__I'm in for real, baby__  
__Gonna keep movin'__  
__Gonna go to town_

She considered offering him her mop bucket so he could carry a tune. She cringed a little and tried to focus more on the sensual way his body moved while blocking out his voice, as he seemed to be building to an enthusiastic finish or chorus. It was hard to tell. All she knew was Susan would have died to see this.

_I come up hard__  
__I come up, gettin' down__  
__There's only three things__  
__That's for sho'__  
__Taxes, death and trouble, h'oh!_

_This I know, man, is__  
__This I know, sugar__  
__Girl, ain't gon' let it sweat me, baby_

At this point Marvin let out some trademark howls and Patrick decided to execute a spin, which brought him right round baby, right round, to face Teresa.

For one second she swore the mask slipped and he looked mortified, but his recovery was quick, he was a well trained entertainer after all. The megawatt smile he gave her far out shone the blink and you'd miss it fear in his eyes when he'd first turned to see her standing there, witness to his private silliness.

"Uh, hey," he offered no other explanation for the impromptu floor show. "I hope you don't mind," he rattled the bottle of Heineken with one hand. "I figured you were busy in the kitchen so I helped myself to a beer. Add it to my tab."

She couldn't let it go that easily. She smirked a little and ran a hand through her short, tousled hair. The ends were starting to curl up and she tugged on them a little while telling herself she wasn't flirting, just screwing up her courage to skewer a man who was no doubt good at come backs.

"You know Mr. Jane, I don't make people sing for their supper, and in your case it would probably be best if you didn't. It might only get you the scraps left over."

She fought with herself not to bat her eyelashes like a coquette, but found she couldn't be sorry about her forwardness. Her life had grown dull, and she craved some excitement, a brief flirtation, conversation, anything really, just something different from her day to day existence. She couldn't afford the liberation UCLA had offered her, and so she had to take what little life experiences would be thrown her way in a small town.

He didn't seem to notice her inner turmoil. He was simply amused by her comment.

"Well, I never claimed to be a song and dance man. I perform it's true, but not like that."

She was intrigued. "So what are you an actor? I've never heard of you." It would certainly explain the fancy car and the flashy Rolex.

He looked appalled. "Oh God no! Actors- yuck! You mean like an actor-actor in Hollywood?" Her nod made him pull a face like he'd swallowed cough syrup. "I'll admit my job involves a fair amount of acting, but no not in the traditional sense. Actors, especially the ones in Hollywood are the most tedious, horrid people on Earth. I should know…I have lots of them on my client list."

"So you work for actors?"

"Sometimes. I work for a lot of people who do a lot of different things."

She looked puzzled. "You're a shrink then?"

Again he looked aghast. "No, oh no, if there's anything worse than actors it's doctors."

She crossed her arms over her chest and shifted her weight to the right. "Then what do you do Patrick Jane? What are you?"

The smile he gave her this time didn't quite reach his eyes. "That, Ms. Lisbon, is the sixty-four million dollar question. I've been having trouble lately deciding on what the answer is."

"I see."

"I'm sure you don't," he pulled her left arm free and used it to turn her back towards the kitchen ever so gently. "But," his hand migrated to her lower back, "why don't we discuss it over dinner, well early breakfast at this point?"

"Uh," she had a sneaking suspicion she was being manipulated or led somehow. Something was going on just past the periphery of her sight and subconscious. "Sure, but please take a seat at the bar. I'll bring the food out when it's ready."

He was still pulling her towards the kitchen, towards the part of the inn that was her home, her off limits to strangers and patrons, home.

"You know, if it's all the same to you," he said it like he knew there would be no fight, no objection, and again she felt the invisible pull at the base of her skull, as if she was being led to do his bidding, "I'd like to eat in the kitchen. It's cozy on a stormy night no? And, we can sit face to face. If I eat at the bar you'll stand behind it, and probably balance your cash while finding any number of chores to do instead of eating. Am I right?"

"Well, I," she couldn't formulate a proper response when she was too busy wondering how he knew exactly what she'd do if left to her own devices. "If you really want to eat in the kitchen…I mean it's a mess…

"No matter. Let's go shall we? I smelled bacon earlier, and I've got to tell you I'm starving, and that beer is going right to my head." His ear to ear grin was back in place.

"Sure, okay, come this way," she said, despite knowing she wasn't the one doing the leading.

Jane followed Teresa into a spacious kitchen that was crammed with stainless steel and cooking appliances of every kind. There was a small wooden table shoved into a corner by the window. This was no doubt, where she and her father ate. His photographic memory went to work cataloguing every thing his eyes alighted on. He'd grown up being told he had a gift, but Jane knew that wasn't the case. He simply remembered things quicker and better than most people, but he was not the first to be born with such a skill, and he'd not be the last. It wasn't magic, it was biology. Some athletes were able to out perform their peers simply because they'd fluked into being born with better than average eye hand coordination, muscle development or stamina. It took training to perfect and utilize these "gifts", but it amounted to the same thing; advantage coded into the genes.

He'd often wondered where his talent would have led him if he'd lived a normal life, been raised by a normal family. School would have been easy. He'd have distinguished himself. But, he never got the opportunity.

_I __come up hard, baby__  
__But now I'm cool__  
__I didn't make it, sugar__  
__Playin' by the rules__  
_

Being raised by travelers involved too much moving around for a youngster to go to school. Instead, Jane's education, like all the other children in the caravan, had been tended to by whoever amongst the carnival's unusual population was most apt in each subject. A small, reed like man named Mr. Finks, who called himself the carnival's accountant taught him arithmetic. Spelling and language had been the purview of the Strong Man whose love of literature was a great as his stature. When you lived with trapeze artists there was no need for formal gym classes. And, while young Patrick had been incredibly thirsty for knowledge, how could one with such a brain not be, he'd never got to spend quite as much time with his cobbled together tutors as he liked. His father had insisted Jane spend the majority of his time learning how to con, and how to use his quick wits to succeed at it. Jane senior had decided early on to exploit his son's intellect in order to raise the family's standard of living.

The young boy had inherited his mother's beauty, and some how a brain beyond his father's comprehension. His father had been at a loss as to how a mediocre magician, and a failed dancer turned trapeze artist, could produce such a child, but he did understand that his son's attributes were potentially lucrative, and he worked to ensure they paid off.

_I come up hard__  
__But that's okay, 'cause__  
__Trouble man__  
__Don't get in my way__  
__Hey, hey!_

_I know some places__  
__And I see some faces__  
__I've got the connections__  
__I dig my directions__  
__What people say, that's okay__  
__They don't bother me, oh yeah_

Besides, the kid had owed him some measure of comfort in life. Giving birth to Patrick had killed his mother, and left his father with a carbon copy of her in a tiny, needy, male form.

Jane's thoughts snapped back to the kitchen immediately. The categorizing and memorization of the room which was clearly the epicenter of Teresa's world ended as quickly as it had begun. His brain quit making all the connections and building her back story based on its observations. Every time Patrick thought of his mother, his unusual mind stuttered and failed. It was like the last beat on a heart monitor, or a punctuation mark. It marked the end of thinking.

Teresa, who had been busy at the stove up until this point, turned and frowned at her house guest. He seemed a million miles away. "Are you okay?"

Jane's mind was instantly alert and whirring again. "What? Yeah, sure…just tired and hungry."

"Well," she started, and paused to lift two plates from the counter next to her, "let's try to deal with the first problem, and then you can go upstairs and sleep off the second one."

She approached the table with arms laden with food and the sight was so wonderful to his tired eyes that Jane forgot to be his usual dashing self. No offer of help was made to ease her burden or set the table. He simply collapsed into one of the two chairs that sat like bookends on either side of the table, and picked up a sandwich from the nearest plate.

When he surfaced for air Teresa was returning to the table with bowls of soup. He looked up and realized at some point a large, wooden bowl filled with salad had been placed in the middle of the table as well. He felt Teresa's eyes on him as the last swallow of sandwich went audibly down his throat.

"Wow, you weren't kidding about being hungry."

If it wasn't for years of practiced self-control he might have blushed. "Yeah, I was." He considered leaving it at that, but her searching green eyes made him offer a small, but guarded truth, that no one, outside of Bernie and his wife knew. "I'm a fast eater, always was. I've uh, learned to control it. But, when I'm hungry it surfaces. My apologies. It was rude."

"Not at all," she picked up her own spoon and peered over it at him, before blowing on the hot liquid it held. Her eyes were so big. He swore it was the short haircut. It left her face open and free, nothing but eyes, full lips and sharp cheek bones. "You've been travelling for a long time, and I've taken even longer to feed you. Considering you're paying me for the service I'm the one who should apologize."

He watched her mouth close over the spoon and felt the need to tell her more. "It's nothing you did, honestly. Where I grew up you had to eat fast or lose your chance."

He could tell she found nothing revelatory about his confession, but to him it was like pulling teeth or nails out. It was imperative to his business, and his mental equilibrium that no one, save his wife and closest associates knew about his past. Still, he was aware his comment held volumes of truth about his former life, but Teresa, a stranger, would discern little from it.

She swallowed another spoonful of soup and shrugged. "Big family hey? I know how that is living with three men. You eat fast or you don't eat at all. Too many greedy mouths otherwise."

He should have nodded in agreement and left it at that, but he didn't. "No." Those huge orbs met his gaze again, sucking him in, and sucking the truth out. "It was a small family. Just two of us, so little really, problem was there was even less food."

Or no food at all if he didn't perform or failed to secure some form of income by cheating a carnival patron out of their money. Despite his rebellious nature even Patrick Jane would conform rather than starve.

_I come up hard, awful hard__  
__I had to win__  
__Then start all over__  
__And win again_

"You and your mom?" she asked, idly while munching on a bite of sandwich.

"Nope, just me and my father," he mumbled and stuck his spoon into the steaming soup in front of him. It was tomato soup, just as she'd promised, but it was hardier than he'd expected. Chunks of fresh vegetables and some kind of grain were floating in it. He stared at it for several seconds and his brain supplied the answer; you've seen this before, you've eaten this before, quinoa, it's grown in the Andes, it's really a fruit.

Ordinarily he would have shared the quinoa is really a fruit fact with his dinner companion and moved the conversation away from his personal life and his past, but when he lifted his gaze to hers he felt a need to connect.

"Just like you."

She seemed startled. "What?"

"It was just me and my dad, like your situation now. Except, my mom died when I was young, an infant really, much younger than you were when your mother passed."

Her face closed off and her mouth puckered as if she'd been sucking on lemons, not tomato soup. "And just what makes you so sure my mother is dead?"

He smiled then, a genuine smile, and while he knew a shit eating grin was not the way to placate her anger he couldn't help it. This was what he was good at, this was what he did, he knew things, things he shouldn't, but he always did. He was probably going to offend her further if he kept talking, but he couldn't help it.

"Because you're wearing her cross."

He watched as a small hand flew to the gold pendant that hung about her neck. "This doesn't have to be my mother's. Maybe I bought it."

"No you didn't." He continued to nonchalantly eat his soup as she stared at him. He noticed her pointed look and raised an eyebrow at her. "Yes?"

She folded her arms and leaned back into her chair. "And?"

He shook his head. "And what?"

"And, how do you know I didn't buy this necklace."

"Two reasons. Number one, you're not religious, at least not formally, so you're not wearing it as a show of faith. Number two, it's old. I can tell just by looking at it. Probably a family heirloom that was owned by your grandmother first, or some great aunt who became a nun, whichever. It became yours when your mother died. I'm not sure when, but I'm going to guess sometime between junior high and your eighteenth birthday. At which point your father became an alcoholic and you took over your mother's role in this business and raised your two younger brothers."

"But-

"I'm not done. I originally assumed your mother died in some tragic manner through no fault of her own, I just didn't know how. She didn't just leave, or take her own life. You wouldn't wear her necklace if she had. Your facial reaction just now when I mentioned your father's alcoholism leads me to believe drinking played a role in your mother's death. Again, she obviously didn't drink herself to death and your Dad didn't kill her in a drunken rage otherwise he'd be in jail. At the very least you wouldn't be here waiting on him hand and foot. So, how is a person most likely to die when alcohol is involved if they aren't imbibing it and someone they love isn't either?" He searched her face, and her body language, and then smiled when the answer revealed itself. "She was hit by a drunk driver. Am I right?"

"You're right. Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"People usually are." He drained the last of his soup before continuing. "But, if you're not I could tell you a few other things."

"Shoot." The way she said it made him think that she'd like to do just that-to him.

A challenge never scared him when he was doing a reading. On the contrary, he lived for the more complex puzzles. It gave his racing mind order and relief. He reached a hand out towards her. "May I?" he asked, and indicated to her crossed arms.

"May you what?" she asked, suspiciously.

"Your hand, may I hold it for a moment?"

She stretched her left arm out to him somewhat reluctantly and watched as he grasped the proffered appendage with both hands. One slid into her palm, the other rapped around her wrist. His eyes bore into hers, and she felt suddenly naked.

"You love Paris, but you've never been. You've never been anywhere but here really, not since your mother died. You want to leave, but you can't, not while there's Daddy to babysit. But, that's all going to end soon, and you're thinking on embarking on the study of law. The problem is you can't afford to go to school, not unless you sell this place and that's not something you're comfortable with. It's all that's left of your mother after all. You could go, you're father is dying isn't he? But, something, the money probably, is holding you back, and it's making you incredibly resentful of everyone around you. Especially your father and your brother's because you think they got a fairer shake out of your mother's death than you did."

She tried to free her hand from his vice like grip but couldn't. "How do you know all of that? Are you psychic or something?"

If she couldn't get her arm free she at least wouldn't cry. Tears had been threatening to spill since he'd mentioned her father's imminent death, but she wouldn't let them fall out of sheer pride. She didn't think he'd meant to humiliate her, there was nothing but compassion in his eyes, but he'd still embarrassed her and it stung.

Jane was used to such reactions, especially from skeptics or first time clients. Soothing her wounded pride was simply a matter of choosing the right words and saying them in the right way. But, in the end those words eluded him, and he said the unthinkable. "No, I'm not a psychic," he knew the danger of saying this out loud to a stranger, a stranger he knew needed money and might sell him out for the right price, "I'm just paying attention. You see Teresa people pay me good money to pay attention. They think I'm a psychic, and I don't refute that. In fact, I pretend to believe in my own psychic abilities. I don't lie to people about what I do. I do know their secrets. I just lie to them about why. It's made me a very good living, an extravagant one even, but I promise you I'm not psychic and nothing I said just now was designed to hurt you."

"I don't understand." Her pulse was rapid and flighty under his thumb and he knew she was frightened.

"You haven't let a mad man into your home Teresa. Calm down. Take a deep breath with me," he inhaled and exhaled as she did the same. It was the closest he'd felt to another human being in years. "Good. I'm going to explain to you how I knew those things. Is that ok?"

She nodded because she felt she had no choice. She wanted to know his secrets and her hand was still trapped in his.

"When I came downstairs after my shower you were engaged in the kitchen so I helped myself to your surroundings so to speak. I'm sorry for the invasion of your privacy, but my only excuse is I can't help myself. Invading people's privacy for money is what I do, and I enjoy my work, or at least, I used to."

His momentary pause gave her an in. "You went through my things?"

"Just behind the bar. The rest I figured out for myself. Obviously, I found your acceptance letters from the law schools under the till. How is it by the way that someone who never went to college gets into law school?"

She was too stunned at his boldness to be angry. "There are special circumstances for mature students."

He raised an eyebrow and shrugged his shoulders. "Makes sense I guess. Especially if that mature student has an excellent sob story and you sure do."

"Hey! I worked hard to earn those placements. I-

"Did extremely well on the LSAT. Yeah, I know I read the letters remember?" He let go of her wrist and settled for gripping her hand with both of his. "Your Dad's condition? Well, it's kind of obvious. He's yellower than a banana suggesting some pretty advanced cirrhosis of the liver. He'd probably live longer if he gave up the drink, but well, we both know that's not happening. Given your plan to go to school, something you wouldn't do if he was going to be around for a while I'd say he's got six months tops. I know you have two brothers because I saw their pictures in your father's room. I assume you might be resentful of them because neither of them still live here and their pictures feature some really lovely significant others and kids. Funny how you're the only Lisbon without either."

He felt her tug away again and gripped harder. "That wasn't a criticism Teresa. It was an observation."

She sniffed and nodded. Once she had control again she spoke. "What about the Paris thing?"

He gave her a look that said, get real. "Please, that's the easiest one. The area behind the bar is lined with postcards depicting scenes of Paris and you have a collection of little Eiffel Towers in between the booze bottles."

"It could just be kitsch in a small town bar."

"Could be, but it isn't."

"No it isn't," she agreed, and ran her free hand through her hair. "Okay Patrick, you seem to know everything about me, but what about you?"

"What about me?"

"It's my turn to read you. You're not the only one who can observe you know."

"Of course I'm not the only person capable of observation. That would just be ridiculous. Though, if I was I'd be much richer and probably in charge of the world. It's an appealing thought, but sadly impossible."

She smiled a sly smile and he knew what it felt like to be one of his clients. "That's enough funny man. It's all you this time. Give me back my hand I'm going to need it."

He released her hand and chuckled as she gripped his left hand and wrist just as he had done to her. "You don't even know why you're doing that."

"Doesn't matter."

Her right hand left his wrist to rub the band of gold on his ring finger. The action brought up the glaring fact he was spoken for, but neither of them made a move to untangle their hands from one another's. "You're married."

"That one's pretty easy."

"I'm not done. Hush."

She let her fingers dance over the gold band for a few more seconds before she settled on holding his one hand with both of hers. "You also have a child, or children."

"Correct again. How did you know?"

"When you tucked in my father, you well, you tucked him in. Only parents do that. Girl or boy? Both?"

He smiled at the thought of his daughter. "One child. A girl."

"I see. So, you're married. Not divorced?" He shook his head no and she continued. "You have a daughter. And, she's happy? Healthy?"

He took a deep breath and considered his answer. "Healthy- yes. Happy? Well, she's thirteen and like any teenager her moods are mercurial at best."

"But, no more so than a typical teenager?"

"I guess not. She's the only one I know."

"So, then you have a wife, who you love and I presume loves you if you're not divorced. You have a daughter who by all accounts is a healthy, normal thirteen year old, and by your own admission you're well off." She removed her hand from his and Jane had to fight the urge to grab it back. "My question then would be; why are you here Patrick? Why are you holding hands with a stranger in a small town at, gosh look at the time, four-thirty in the morning?"

She stood and began to clear the table. He knew she felt bereft at the loss of physical contact, he could see the disappointment in her own eyes when she'd pulled away. But, he also knew she thought less of him for allowing the connection to be made in the first place. He waited till her back was turned before he spoke next. He couldn't look her in the eyes and say what needed to be said.

"I'm not here because I'm a philanderer. I'm a charlatan for sure, but not an adulterer. I love my wife and my daughter…very much." She dropped the plates and bowls into the dishwasher and turned to face him. She offered no comment, just a raised eyebrow. "I'm here because," Why was he here? "Because I'm tired."

She left the dishwasher and came to stand in front of him, hands on hips, her chin jutted out in a manner that said no nonsense would be allowed. "Tired of what?" she asked, as if he were a naughty school boy and she was his harried teacher. For a moment Patrick experienced déjà vu, and he wondered, despite his atheism, if somewhere, in another time and place a woman like her often stood over a man like him and berated, or demanded an explanation for selfish misdeeds.

He met her gaze steadily. "Of lying."

"I'm tired of lying to people for money. I'm sick of looking over my shoulder to make sure the people I climbed over to get to the top aren't on my heels ready to pull the whole thing apart. You're not the only person who knows I'm not really psychic Teresa, and those other people, from my past, they're not good people. I'm tired of the game, of the con. To put it very ineloquently, I'm sick of this shit."

"I see, so you're a con man with a heart of gold is what you're saying. I think I've heard this story before except it usually stars a stripper, prostitute or thief."

He laughed in spite of himself. "Well, I've never been the first two, but I'm certainly an experienced third." He wouldn't tell her how often he'd feared becoming the second during his formative years. He was as beautiful as the carnival folk were ugly, and he'd stood out. There'd been more than one drunken pass from a man old enough to be his grandfather, and a very real fear that one day his father would auction him off to the highest bidder to do more than a reading.

_I come up hard, baby__  
__But that's okay, cause__  
__Trouble man__  
__Don't get in the way_

Once he'd gotten older, and figured out women he'd realized just how useful his looks were. He wouldn't pretend like he'd never feigned love and affection in return for a roof over his head. He'd wined and dined more than one vulnerable, older lady before making off with her heart and her jewelry.

"And, I really don't think anyone could accuse me of having a golden heart."

"You're not a bad man Patrick, not essentially."

"How would you know?"

"Your boots."

"Excuse me?"

"Your boots. Given how well you dress I'm guessing those awful boots are a planned part of the outfit, not a mistake." She peered at the dusty relics from his former life. His legs were sprawled out in of his chair and she idly bumped his foot with her own. "You clearly come from hard times if food was hard to come by growing up. But, you're proud of those hard times. Despite all this," she waved her hand at his general dapper appearance, "all this pomp and circumstance, done much more tastefully than your original outfit by the way, you're proud of your humble beginnings. You probably tell people you wear those boots to show how far you've come, but that's not it is it?"

"No."

He was uncomfortable with how easily she seemed to know what those he loved did not.

Now she was wearing the shit eating grin. "No, I didn't think so. I bet those boots aren't there to remind you of how far you've come, but of who you really are."

He didn't bother to argue with her. He just wanted to know how she'd figured him out. "Why do you think that?"

"Because, if I had to lie about what I was everyday I'd need something, some talisman to remind me of who I really am. But, that's just me. I also have a side question."

"Which is?"

"You said you're, and I quote, sick of this shit. I guess I'm wondering were you always just a little sick of the shit? Was the con intentional or necessary? Did you mean to be a criminal? Because, technically, you are a criminal. I mean, I'm sure you have a very fancy legal team who would argue, successfully, that you are not, but you know the truth right?"

His face was impassive, and revealed nothing. "Let's just say I was once well aware of that fact, but then, for awhile it was easy to forget. Lately, however I find myself being reminded of the less desirable aspects of my character more frequently."

He propped an elbow up on the table and let his chin rest in his hand. A yawn he didn't realize he'd been holding in escaped. "And let me add, you're going to be a fine lawyer Teresa. I don't give those sorts much credit, but you've got the right mind for it, and a good heart, so I bet you'll do well. Something in public law no doubt. I'd say defense, but you can't always pick your clients and some of them won't be innocent, single moms who stole bread to feed their starving kids. There will be a few guilty as sin rapists and murderers, so I'd suggest sticking with prosecution. You're good at judging people based on only half the evidence."

She rolled her eyes at his final comment. "If that's a dig at the justice system then fair ball. If it was meant to insult me then you're forgetting what I said earlier. I don't think you're a bad man Patrick. A criminal? Yes, if you're separating people from their money in a fraudulent manner. What I asked about was your motivations. You know, those things you claim to know implicitly about everyone else? What are yours?"

Jane considered her question, and he considered answering it. The hand that had supported his chin was now scrubbing over his face, and through his hair. One glance at the window told him the sun would be up soon. He hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. To continue talking was to put off sleep that much longer and Bernie had only promised him two days grace to get to Malibu and back.

But not talking also held its risks. It wasn't just last night and the night before that he couldn't sleep. Jane used to think he'd spend his life trying to stay one step ahead of the shady characters from his past, and the diligent skeptics who sought to debunk his myth. Lately, though, he seemed to be his own worst enemy. His fledgling conscience had found its wings, and now it wanted to soar. It was the eagle and he was the snake about to be snatched from the dessert floor and flayed open by beak and talon. He sensed the only method of evasion was confession. Redemption may not be possible, but he could tell the truth just this once.

He'd give her a chance to say no before he complicated both their lives further, or simply wasted her time. After all, it was late, and she needed to sleep just as much as he did. He swallowed and kept his gaze on the window. "It would take some time to explain my motivations. Time you may not have. It'll be daylight soon Teresa. You have guests to tend to, and a full day ahead of you. I can go upstairs and sleep as long as I want," it was a lie, he couldn't sleep even when he wanted to, but she deserved the out, "but you have to start breakfast and then continue on. Are you sure you want to do that?"

Teresa crossed her arms and considered his point. He was right. The Schuesters wanted breakfast by seven. They had a wedding to get ready for. After that she'd have to clean their room-thoroughly- or the wife would get jittery. The clock on the wall told her it was just after five am. Usually she'd be getting up soon to start cooking the morning meal for her guests. There was no sense trying to sleep now.

"I've got to have breakfast ready for seven. It's served between seven and noon. We do brunch as well for the public at large."

"Well, that's it then, you've got your hands full. I'll get out of your hair. I'm sorry I kept you up this long." He made to leave the room as he made his excuses.

She stilled him with a hand on his arm. "I've got to stay awake anyway, so you may as well talk me through it."

Teresa knew she was breaking all kinds of customer service rules by keeping a tired patron from their bed, but she didn't care. She suspected Patrick needed to tell her whatever it was he had to say, and she wanted to hear it. When would another person of equal or greater interest pass through her door? She never spent the night talking to an attractive, mysterious man. It couldn't last forever. She had to serve brunch and he had to sleep, and leave, and never return. This was all they had, all they could do. What were a few more hours with a compelling stranger when they were the only hours you'd ever have with said stranger?

"Honestly, if you're not too tired I'd like the company."

Patrick took a deep breath and weighed his choices. Sleep now, or sleep later? Nothing else-not sleeping pills, meditation, heavy meals before bed, light meals before bed, exercise, sex, alcohol-had worked to ease his insomnia. If unburdening himself to a stranger now would allow him to sleep soundly later it was worth a try. Regular folks with his problem probably saw therapists all the time. Pouring out his soul to the woman in front of him probably amounted to the same thing, give or take a couch and some qualifications. Plus, Jane never did anything like regular folks.

"Okay," he said, and indicated for her to sit. "You're on. But first, do you have any tea? I'm going to need it."

"Sure."

Teresa left him at the table to fill the kettle with water. He watched silently as she fired up the burner and set the kettle on it to boil. Neither of them spoke as she assembled cups, saucers and tea bags together on a tray. She began a search for the sugar bowl and the milk jug, and Jane tried to locate his courage. All three turned up just as the kettle started to whine its readiness.

"I grew up in a travelling carnival."

Teresa spun around at the sound of his voice and her face was the picture of incredulity.

He smiled at her reassuringly. "I know. I know exactly how improbable that sounds. I mean I might as well say I grew up in a Steinbeck novel, but there you go. My parents, and all of the adults around me, were travelers. Gypsies with a job I guess. My Dad was a magician," he made air quotes as he described his father's profession, "and my mother was his assistant and a trapeze artist. I'm also told that in her earlier days she was quite the ballerina, but it didn't work out after she met my father."

The kettle was incessant at this point and Teresa could ignore it no longer. She picked it up and emptied its contents into a teapot she'd added to the tray. Her silence continued as she walked the tea set over to the table where he sat and laid it in front of him. She fiddled with the cups, the sugar bowl and the spoons.

"So, you really grew up carney? You're not making that up because you lie and you think I want to hear a clever story?"

He poured milk into the empty cup closest to him, and then added tea. "No, trust me I couldn't make this stuff up. Well, I could, I'm very good at that sort of thing. But no, I'm not lying. You asked about my motivations, and I'm trying to explain them to you. I fear starting at the beginning might be the only way for you to truly understand."

He picked up the tea pot and indicated to her cup. Would she like some as well? Teresa nodded in the affirmative and he picked up the milk jug. Again she nodded. Again he poured the milk first, then the tea.

He watched her stir some sugar into her cup before he continued. "Besides, I haven't even gotten to the part where I join a professional ring of thieves."

Her response was to spit out her first sip of tea. "You did not!"

He picked up a napkin and leaned forward to wipe off the table, then her chin. "Yes, I did. I'm a criminal just like you said. I've straightened out…some, since my early days, but my motivation remains the same."

The electricity from the stairs had made its way into the kitchen and she tried to ignore the tiny shocks ignited by his hand on her chin. "So, then what is it? Your motivation."

He put down the napkin but he didn't leave her personal space. His face remained inches from her own, their knees bumped together where they sat. "Survival. It's always been about survival. At first, that meant making it to the next day with a full belly and a place to sleep. It's a bit more complicated now."

_Come up hard, baby__  
__I had to fight__  
__Took care of my business__  
__With all my might_

_I come up hard, awful hard__  
__I had to win__  
__Then start all over__  
__And win again_

"How so?"

She never got the answer to her question. At that moment a figure appeared in the kitchen and startled them both. It was only when he pulled away that Jane realized he'd abandoned the napkin in favor of gripping one of Teresa's knees.

They made quite a picture to Amber O'Keefe, local teen, and part time line cook for the Auburn Inn when she entered the kitchen to start her usual Saturday shift. The teenager tried to be nonchalant, but the last thing she expected to see when she walked into work was her boss entertaining a hottie of a certain age.

They were both staring at her like she'd caught them trying to burn the place down. "Uh, hey Teresa. Crazy storm last night huh? I, um, I'm here to make breakfast."

Amber wanted to slap herself. Of course she was here to make breakfast, and lunch and if she wanted to pick up some extra hours, dinner. That's what she did every Saturday. Why was she being such a dork? And why was Teresa staring at her like that?

Fortunately for Amber neither of the adults in front of her noticed her awkwardness. They were too consumed by their own embarrassment. Teresa recovered first.

"Amber! Hi! I'm sorry time just got away from me. Mr. Jane here," she indicated to Patrick who waved at Amber, "showed up early this morning and needed a place to stay. We just had an early breakfast before the rush starts. But, now you and I need to get to work and Mr. Jane needs to get some sleep."

Patrick could tell he was being shooed out of the kitchen. He wished they had more time, but there was nothing to be done about it. And he did need sleep. He had to get to Malibu before the day ended.

He made it to the entrance way before he spun back around. "Teresa? Could you come here for a moment?"

Teresa glanced at Amber and tried to figure out what this must look like to the teenager, but decided it didn't matter. A customer needed her attention, and that was all the girl needed to know. She took off into the hallway and met him at the base of the stairs.

"Yes?"

"I need to be on the road this afternoon. Can you wake me at noon?"

That wasn't what she had expected him to say, but then what more could be said? He was not a free man, and he was only passing through her town and her life. Some sort of romantic declaration would be problematic and impossible. Still, she'd expected something more.

"Sure, of course. I'll um, I'll give you a wake up call at noon. The phone is right by your bed, just so you know."

"Great-thanks-good night, well good morning really."

His words were indicative of an imminent departure, but he continued to stand at the bottom of the stairs. His gaze shifted between her and the floor. Teresa stood there waiting for whatever it was he seemed to be debating about doing or saying, but nothing came so she took the lead.

"Well, I've got to get back to the kitchen. I won't forget-wake up call-twelve pm sharp."

She turned to leave and he finally spoke. "Teresa hey," she whirled to face him again, "about our talk. I know I don't have to ask for your discretion. But, I do want to say I'm sorry we never got to finish. I needed someone to listen, and you've been great. I guess it's just meant for another time and place."

She nodded and smiled sadly. "Yeah, another time and place. Sleep tight Patrick."

"Thanks. For the food, the room, and everything. I-

"Jane just go get some sleep will you!"

Both of them were startled by her tone and the use of his last name. Where had that come from? Her eyes were as full of alarm as his smile was of sunshine as she rushed to apologize and he said, "Yes Ma'am".

Teresa breathed a sigh of relief as he turned to head up the stairs and off to bed. She'd been very rude to a paying customer just now, but really given the night she'd just spent with Patrick she figured they were beyond offense. Life was funny sometimes she thought. It brought you surprises and new friends when you least expected it, even if both experiences were fleeting. She returned to the kitchen and got ready to lead Amber through the morning prep.

Jane reached his room and flung open the door. He was already working on the buttons and zippers that kept him confined in his clothes as the door swung shut. Luckily, he thought to close the drapes to keep out the morning light before he completely divested himself of his garments. He pulled the blankets back on his temporary bed and fell into it exhausted. He didn't expect to sleep. There was so much in his life, and even this night that remained unresolved, but for now, it didn't seem to matter. He drifted off despite himself and for the first time in a long time he dove into a black, deep and dreamless sleep.

_I'm ready to make it__  
__Don't care what the weather__  
__Don't care 'bout no trouble__  
__Got myself together__  
__I feel the kind of protection__  
__That's all around me_

_I come up hard, baby__  
__I be for real, baby__  
__With a trouble minds__  
__Movin', goin' to town_

_I come up hard__  
__I come up, gettin' down__  
__There's only three things fo' sho'__  
__Taxes, death and trouble_

_TBC…_


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to The Mentalist. Lyrics are from "All Along the Watchtower" which Bob Dylan wrote, but Jimi Hendrix made famous.

A/N: Sorry I take so long to update.

EL SCORCHO

Chapter 4: The Joker and the Thief

"_There must be some way out of here," said the joker to the thief,__  
__"There's too much confusion, I can't get no relief.__  
__Businessmen, they drink my wine, plowmen dig my earth,__  
__None of them along the line know what any of it is worth."_

_"No reason to get excited," the thief, he kindly spoke,__  
__"There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke.__  
__But you and I, we've been through that, and this is not our fate,__  
__So let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late."_

_All along the watchtower, princes kept the view__  
__While all the women came and went, barefoot servants, too._

_Outside in the distance a wildcat did growl,__  
__Two riders were approaching, the wind began to howl_

_-Bob Dylan_

Jane slept the morning away, oblivious to the many goings on in the inn beneath him. For everyone else in the Auburn Inn, both staff and patron, the lunch hour approached rapidly.

Teresa was so busy in the kitchen from the moment she and Jane parted ways on the stairs that it felt like the six hours since she'd last seen him had passed in the blink of an eye. When the clock struck twelve and Amber began serving lunch Teresa knew she couldn't put off his wake up call for long. She debated forgoing the internal phone system and simply knocking on his door. But no, that would be far too personal service and ridiculous. She'd see him again before he left. He'd need to settle his bill after all. Of course what she wasn't able to admit to herself was that what she really wanted was to interact with him in private one last time, not at the front desk of her busy establishment. Brushing off her ill considered fantasies of a sleep tumbled Patrick Jane Teresa reached for the phone in the kitchen and punched in the code to his room. It rang for an extended period before he finally answered it.

"Mhm' lo?"

Teresa almost laughed out loud at his sleepy voice. It sounded more Elmer Fudd than suave celebrity psychic.

"Patrick! It's Teresa downstairs. It's noon. You wanted to get up now so you could get on road. Remember?"

"Mmhm. S'ere's one problem."

"What's that?"

"Can't wake up. Not by myself. Your gonna have to come up here. Maybe with some fresh tea?"

She bit her lip and tried to suppress her smile. It's not like she wanted to go up to his room, but as a paying customer she couldn't really deny him the tea could she?

"Okay, but give me fifteen minutes. Lunch rush just started."

"Kay."

There was a prolonged silence while they both waited for the other to say something else, or bid a good bye. Teresa wondered if he had hung up, but the sound of his breath coming down the line told her otherwise.

"Um, Patrick? I can't serve lunch, make your tea and spend the next fifteen minutes on the phone with you."

Suddenly his voice returned. "No, yeah, of course. Bye."

"Bye."

* * *

Jane fell back against the pillows on his rented bed and hung up the phone in disgust. It was official, he was a terrible, terrible man, a con artist and now an almost adulterer. Could a person be almost an adulterer he wondered? Was it something you could do only halfway? It wasn't like he'd violated his marriage vows in any real, physical way, but he couldn't deny he'd just kept a woman who was not his wife on the phone like a sixteen year old school boy just to hear the sound of her voice. Then he'd asked her to bring him tea, pretty much in bed. Jesus why didn't he just throw some money on the vanity table and ask her to serve it naked?

He was beginning to think maybe he was addicted to self-loathing. What else could explain his life long need to carry out acts he knew were wrong, illegal or simply outside of bounds? Until now this propensity for deviance had never included his marriage. His love for his wife was the one pure act, along with the creation of his daughter he could lay claim to. It mattered to him that his family life never be tarnished. But, it was also becomingly abundantly clear to him that he couldn't keep his personal life stain free without abandoning his professional aspirations, and this was something his wife did not approve of if he'd drawn the right inferences from their argument the previous day.

There was a strain growing between them. A resentment he didn't mean to have, but couldn't shrug off. He had to believe his wife knew how much the con was wearing him down, and that meant she was willfully ignoring its impact on him in favor of financial security. He rubbed his eyes and decided his attraction to the accommodating woman downstairs was based purely on just that, the fact she was so accommodating. There had been a time when his wife had been unable to do enough for him, when she'd been truly grateful for the life he provided her with. It was just the lack of reciprocity he felt in his marriage these days that was causing him to enjoy the bright green eyes and smiles of another woman. Once he got back to Malibu, and had a serious talk with his wife, and confronted her with his feelings she would go back to being the woman he first fell in love with. He could begin pulling out of the con and forget all about Teresa Lisbon.

Right after she brought him his tea, of course.

* * *

Teresa was just finishing a painstaking tea service arrangement when Amber banged into the kitchen laden with used dishes.

"Fancy," the teenager eyed the tea tray suspiciously.

"Oh, um, well, I'm just you know, providing top of the line room service."

"Since when do we do room service?"

"We do whatever our customers ask for…within reason." Teresa replied while foraging for a tea cozy.

Amber dumped some plates into the dishwasher. "Whatever."

Teresa considered reprimanding her employee. After all, as the boss she deserved more respect and nothing grated on adult nerves more than being dismissed with a "whatever", the ultimate in teenage insults. Her own guilt wouldn't let her take a shot at Amber. Instead she found an easy lie slipping through her teeth.

"The Schuesters ordered tea and you know how picky the wife is. I just wanted it to pass her inspection."

Turns out there is something more devastating than a teenage girl mumbling, "whatever", and it's a teenage girl rolling her eyes when she catches you in a lie.

"That's funny," Amber drawled, "because Mr. Schuester is sitting in the bar with your Dad. He's been down here for the last half an hour waiting for Mrs. Schuester to get ready for that wedding they're going to. Your Dad and Mr. Schuester get on like a house on fire. Don't ask me why, but I feel like they could break into song at any minute. Crazy right?"

Teresa refused play her game. "That is crazy, and I guess the wife is having tea alone. I just hope the cups are clean enough for her."

Amber snorted with disbelief and dumped soap into the dishwasher. "Like _He's_ gonna care. He didn't order the tea for the cups."

"I'm going upstairs now and just so you know I'm only letting you talk to me like this because you're right. Any other time you are to refer to me with the respect that I, as your employer, deserve."

"Consider it done."

With that Teresa exited the kitchen as quickly as she could while burdened with the elaborate tea service. She maneuvered he way up the stairs to Patrick's room and placed the tea set on a decorative table in the small hallway. Assuming the door to be locked she knocked and waited for him to physically grant her entrance to the room, but all she got was a muffled, "Come in".

Following his orders meant somehow opening the door and carrying the tea set over the threshold. Teresa turned the knob, propped the door open and backed into the room with her arms fully loaded. The sight that greeted her when she swung around almost made her drop hundreds of dollars of antique china on the floor. Patrick was sitting up in bed, the navy sheets tangled about his body, grinning at her like the Cheshire Cat.

"You're still in bed," she stated while fighting the urge to yell, put on some clothes.

"Nothing escapes you does it?" Patrick seemed completely nonplussed by the situation. "That looks amazing by the way." He pointed at the tea tray.

"Thanks, I try."

"You achieve. Come over here with that behemoth," he said and shifted to one side of the bed.

Teresa walked towards the bed and laid the tray next to him. "Alright, there you go. If you need anything else let me know."

He looked puzzled. "Where are you going?"

"Back down stairs. You know, places to go, people to feed."

"Have you even eaten since we had our late-early breakfast?"

Her hesitation told him all he needed to know. "Close the door and come sit down. There's clearly more than one tea cup, and while I don't remember ordering these little triangle toasts I'm more than willing to share them."

Teresa grinned and sat gingerly on the other side of the tea service. "They're toast points. Haven't you ever seen toasts points? Aren't you supposed to be rich Mr. Fancy Pants?"

He stuffed a toast point in his mouth and chewed while speaking. "Rich? Yes, very. But, I never claimed to be cultured or did you miss the part last night about growing up carny?"

She laughed as crumbs showered from his mouth.

He coughed a little and took a sip of tea before wiping his mouth. "Sorry about that. My wife is better at assimilating to the high life than me. Don't get me wrong I like pretty things, civilized discourse, a night at the opera and a well cut suit, but I've always thought those things were a matter of taste, not wealth."

It should have been odd to discuss his wife in this situation, but it actually made Teresa feel relieved. They weren't doing anything wrong by spending this time together if they were both acutely aware of, and verbalizing, his marital state. "So, your wife didn't grow up carny?"

He shook his head. "On the contrary, she grew up in the exact same carnival."

"Oh."

"We ran away from the life together at sixteen."

Sixteen years old. That meant if Jane was as close to knocking on forty as Teresa suspected he was, then he and his wife had been together for at least twenty years. And that was just as a couple. Clearly they'd known each other since childhood. She felt appropriately angry with herself for coveting a man that was so thoroughly owned by another woman.

"I just assumed she hadn't because you said, well you implied she's used to finer things," Teresa said, fumbling her words.

Jane took another sip of tea and swallowed it and some irony. "Well, she is nowadays. She even changed her name to something grander."

"What now?"

Patrick tore into another toast point before continuing. "My wife, if you met her today, would introduce herself as Elizabeth Jane. I however, refer to her, in private at least, as Angie, or Angela, because that is her name. Angela. Angela Rushkin."

Jane knew he was breaking a very sacred rule by telling Teresa his wife's real name. That name, Angela Rushkin was a part of their sordid past as a couple. Elizabeth Jane had no warrants out for her arrest. She'd never been investigated for fraud or a committed a B & E like Angela. Once Patrick had started making a name for himself they had decided that Angela's name identity become less conspicuous just in case their shared history ever came back to bite them in the ass.

Teresa nibbled on some toast without really wanting to swallow it. "Why did she do it?"

He was about to break another promise not to tell. "To cover our tracks. I wasn't kidding last night about the carnival or the thieving ring. Angie I did what we needed to survive when we first left the show. Some of those things were illegal. When she got pregnant we realized she'd need to be around for our daughter come what may, so we put Angela Rushkin to rest so she could never go to jail."

"But, were you always Patrick Jane?"

"For as long as I can remember…unfortunately."

Teresa ignored his last comment. "Then why just change your wife's name? What about you?"

"It would be impossible for us both to disappear in public. I'm the show now and I'm still wearing the same face I did as a pick pocket. If I was convictable I'd be in jail by now. For better or worse I seem to be bullet proof, but if someone wanted to get to me, they could definitely do it via Angie. I'd do anything to protect her from jail, or worse, as it was my big dreams and tore her away from her family, and what little financial support they had to offer. So, we just came up with a new identity for her. New everything-birth certificate, driver's license, and vaccine records-you name it. There's more government paper on Elizabeth now than there ever was on Angie the gypsy." he gulped down more tea. "It pays sometimes to know really good forgers who owe you a favor or two."

"Wow."

"Yeah, wow."

Teresa shook her head. "It's like something out of a movie. The rest of world must seem dull. My life certainly does in comparison."

Patrick laid his tea cup on the tray and reached for her shoulder. His eyes bore into hers as he spoke. "Not at all. You have no idea how much I envy the people with the normal lives. We should all aspire to it."

Teresa took the opportunity provided to really look at him. He would always be handsome despite the circumstances- that much was obvious-but his eyes were full of fatigue. If you looked close enough you could see the chinks in his armor. He'd fight on, like any good soldier, but his heart wasn't in the battle anymore.

"Is that why you want to give up your show?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yeah, that and a myriad of other reasons big and small."

There was something in his tone of voice that made her want to reach out to him, so she did. Her left hand ran through his tousled curls and she watched as his eyes fell shut and then fluttered open in response. She let her hand come to rest on his cheek.

"I hope you get your normal life Patrick. I'm sure Elizabeth or Angie, well, they both will understand."

His next action was both damming and completely innocent, but was meant to do no more than express his gratitude. He turned his face in her hand until his lips connected with the palm of her hand on which he placed a chaste kiss. "Thank you."

The mumbled words vibrated up her arm, through her shoulder and down into her chest. Her mother used to have some saying about the left hand being connected to the heart, but Teresa couldn't quite remember its exact wording. She could feel its accuracy nonetheless.

She pulled away reluctantly and began to gather up the tea service. "I need to get back to work and you need to get ready for your day."

"Of course."

She turned back to him while trying to maneuver her way out of the door. "Come get me before you're ready to leave. We'll settle your bill and say good bye."

"Teresa?"

"Yes?"

"I hope you get your extraordinary life. I know you will."

"We'll see," she said quietly.

* * *

Jane fell back on the bed when she shut the door and stared at the ceiling. Maybe Teresa was right, maybe Angie would be more understanding if he just leveled with her. He'd been privately censuring his wife for not considering his needs without really letting her know what they were. If Angie knew how real his misgivings about the work were, if she knew how often their past actually did resurface and the effort, mostly financial, that Jane had to make to tramp it back down in the gutter she might be more open to a quiet, anonymous life.

He levered himself off the bed and made for the shower. He'd wanted t be gentleman when Teresa had left by holding the door for her while she wrestled with the tea service, but he couldn't. A gentleman didn't jump out of bed with his beans and wiener flying about even if it was towards the goal of chivalry.

After his shower Jane put back on his suit from the night before and repacked his small bag. He did his best to straighten up around the room before he left. He knew Teresa would redo it all anyway, but it was the thought that counted. She deserved to know that he recognized the amount of work she did and was appreciative. Once the room was respectable Jane walked out into the hallway with the intention of beating a hasty exit to the stairs.

A small, murmuring voice that was admonishing its owner in a very involved way caused him to pause in front of the last guest room's door before the stairs.

"This is ridiculous you know this is ridiculous. It's clean. You can't even see the dirt. It was just some make up. You put it on your own face earlier. It shouldn't bother you that a little got on your shoe. Even if they are your favorite pair."

The mumbling rant continued as Jane's eyes alighted on a beautiful, but strange, sight. The room's lone occupant was an Audrey Hepburnesque red-head in an emerald green sheath dress, and her ginger waves swept up in an immaculate up do. The whole scene would have been the epitome of elegance if not for the woman's puffy, red eyes and the wash cloth she was scouring over the front of a gold colored dress shoe. Patrick's heart immediately went out to her, well his heart, and the latent con artist inside him. He had so many people like her as clients. The OCD she was battling with was plain as day to his trained eyes and he surmised that this was the notoriously germaphobic Emma Schuester whom Teresa had mentioned the night before.

"Excuse me?" He tried to make his voice light and relaxing. His greeting was short and non-threatening.

"Oh!"

Despite his best effort not to he'd clearly startled her. The fright caused her already impossibly large eyes to widen. She stared at him like a deer trapped in headlights.

"Hi," Jane said softly and raised his hands in surrender to let her know he meant no harm. "I, um, I couldn't help over hearing you. Are you alright? You seem upset."

"No! I mean, I'm fine, I mean I dropped my bottle of foundation on my shoe and we're late for my cousin's wedding, but it's nothing, just the usual stuff. Murphy's Law, you know," she stammered it all out in a birdlike voice.

Jane nodded and moved slowly towards her allowing his most endearing smile to bloom across his face. It was the smile he used to say, "Trust me, I understand…for a price".

"I see. Yes, nasty stuff that Murphy's Law. But, it's the not the fact you're late for an important occasion that's bothering you. It's the mess on your shoes isn't it? You don't like messes. Am I right?"

She gripped the wash cloth tighter. Jane watched as her knuckles turned white.

"Who are you?" she asked. "And why are you in my room? Do you work here?"

He pitched his voice to soothing and persuasive. "My name is Patrick. Patrick Jane. I don't work here, but I can help you. I've helped a lot of people like you Emma."

"H-how do you know my name? My husband is right downstairs I can scream right now-

"Emma, please relax."

There was something in his voice and the way he moved his hands that made her momentarily comply, and a moment was all Jane needed. "I'm a guest here like yourself. Teresa-and please don't hold this against her- told me about your um, well your dislike for messes. I've known a lot of people with the same problem Emma and I find hypnotherapy, a specialty of mine by the way, can really help people overcome their compulsions."

"Oh my gosh!" Emma cried and dropped her shoes along with the washcloth. Both hands flew to her mouth. "I know who you are! I've seen your infomercials."

Patrick groaned inwardly. He was hoping to help her anonymously, but if his fame convinced her to hear him out then it was all the better. Jane braced for the usual gushing and adoration that generally followed being recognized by a fan, but it didn't come. If anything Emma's expression seemed to get darker and her eyes narrowed.

"Well, if it isn't Patrick Jane, psychic and hypnotist extraordinaire. Tell me Mr. Jane how are you going to cure me? By contacting my dead grandma? Or by using your mental powers to take me back to the day my brother pushed me into run off at the dairy farm?"

She made air quotes when she said "mental powers" and Jane swallowed hard. This wasn't going as he'd hoped it would.

"Oh yes, I've seen your late night bit Mr. Jane. My favorite part is when you list all the emotional issues you can cure." Again she employed the air quotes at the word cure. "Grief, OCD, addictions, depression, low-self esteem, social anxiety, phobias, suicidal thoughts, even irritable bowel syndrome if I'm not mistaken. Have I missed any?"

"No."

"Good. My question to you then is, how dare you?"

Jane floundered. "Pardon?"

"I'm sorry did I stutter? I said, how dare you? How dare you con desperate people, with life crippling problems no less, into believing you can magic their problems away?

He didn't want to argue with her, because he knew she was right. Well, she was right about the moral side of it, she was wrong about his abilities. He was no psychic, but hypnotherapy he truly believed assisted in the treatment of many mental and physical conditions. There were lots of things about his career he regretted, but getting a bunch of two packs a day smokers off the lung darts with hypnotherapy wasn't one of them. Yeah, he swindled a lot of people, but he'd repaired them at the same time.

He couldn't level with her on the psychic front however, no matter how much he agreed with her assessment of its use. To do so would risk exposure.

"Whatever you might think about the supernatural side of my practice I can tell you there is more than enough clinical evidence to suggest hypnotherapy can assist in the treatment of a variety of mental and physical ailments."

She nodded her assent. "Yes, yes it can, but only when that therapy is administered by a licensed professional who works in a clinical environment Mr. Jane. It should also be part of a holistic, medical approach to treatment, not the sole solution offered by a no good hack on late night television."

"I make my living as a guidance counselor Mr. Jane, which means I spend most of my time ensuring that fifteen hundred teenagers don't spend eight hours a day on drugs or giving birth to dumpster babies at the prom. I live with my problem, and I listen to people discuss theirs all day long. People who are living with mental illness deserve real, sanctioned treatment from the medical community. All you do is offer desperate people a chance to donate their life savings to you in return for a pitiful measure of help. I'd bet more often than not all you sell them is more rope to hang themselves with, even if you never realize it."

"My, my, my," Jane murmured, "you are observant. I'm sorry you feel the way you do about me Emma. My offer to help was sincere and it stands nonetheless."

She crossed her arms. "Thanks but no thanks Mr. Jane. Now if you don't mind I'd like you to leave. You're right messes do upset me, but I have an even bigger problem with scum."

When Patrick was a child one of his side jobs at the carnival was manning the dunk tank. It was always the most humiliating chore. People generally don't respect carnival folk, and the dunk tank is where they paid money to show it. It didn't matter how hot it got outside, being dunked repeatedly into cold water for the amusement of strangers got old really fast. Plus, customers often felt paying their money meant they could take liberties. Jane had spent his youth being held underwater more times than he cared to remember by a series of brutish, teenage red necks.

Emma Schuester's evaluation of him sent him right back to the dunk chair and her words were like a well aimed baseball. She'd hit the target full on.

He backed out of the doorway. "Sure, yeah, I'm sorry. Good bye."

"Thank you," Emma replied and followed him to the door. She shut it in his face without looking up.

Jane took a few steps towards the stairs, but then turned abruptly and banged back into his room. He tossed his duffel bag on the bed and began rummaging through it. At the bottom of the bag he found a small wooden box. Its latch was secured by a set of metal gears that had to be aligned correctly in order for the box to open. It was a puzzle that only Jane and the box's creator could solve. He used it to store cash and valuables. In his business cash was better than credit. Credit left a paper trail. Patrick worked the metal pieces into place quickly and the box sprung open. He drew out its entire contents leaving only enough money inside to get him back to Malibu. The rest, anywhere from five to ten thousand, he didn't take the time to count it, he tossed on the night stand.

It was a sum that surely exceeded his tab, but he didn't care. There was more where it came from after all. He pitched around for something to write on and noticed a pad of paper next to the phone on the night stand. It was no doubt one of Teresa's thoughtful touches. He tore a sheet off the pad and found a pen in the nightstand's drawer.

_Thank you. Take the money use it for school. Use it to start your extraordinary life. _

He wanted to write sorry for leaving like this, but he couldn't, he'd never been good at saying sorry. Apologies were a luxury meant for people who didn't need to hustle for a living. Instead, he tore another sheet of paper from the pad and began folding it rapidly. When he was done a little origami frog sat in his hand. He would leave it with the note, and Teresa would understand. He couldn't face her right now, not after such a dressing down.

He placed the note under the stack of bills and perched the frog on top of them. Then he made his way silently and stealthily out of The Auburn Inn and Teresa Lisbon's life. The Citroen was just a hop, skip and jump away in the parking lot, and Jane was tearing out of Auburn itself, before Teresa even knew he was gone. He raced to the interstate and pointed his car South towards Malibu. It was imperative he get home soon.

His encounter with a red head full of equal parts moxie and anxiety had confirmed what he already knew. He, Patrick Jane was a corrupter, and a prideful one at that. He supposed anyone who had grown up as hard knocks as he had would have a few issues, and his were arrogance and a thirst for money and power.

He'd spent his early life scraping for an existence and enduring humiliation after humiliation in the process. It was a life he'd vowed to rescue himself and Angie from. He'd been determined to make himself into the kind of man no one could disrespect. But, it had been borne in upon him one too many times in the recent past that his work and his life didn't really amount to anything respectable. While he had no urge to live a grubby, transient life again, he did long for a less complicated existence. He knew his family was capable of being happy within themselves, without the lime-light and the con. All he had to do was convince Angie to give the quiet life a second go. He was determined to make it happen. Especially after Emma Schuester's final pitch at the dunk target;

_You know Mr. Jane, what you're doing is wrong. There oughta be a law or something. if you're not careful it all may come back to haunt you. I believe the term for such a thing is, "blow back"._

_All along the watchtower, princes kept the view__  
__While all the women came and went, barefoot servants, too._

_Outside in the distance a wildcat did growl,__  
__Two riders were approaching, the wind began to howl_

_TBC…._


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I own nothing associated with The Mentalist. Not even DVD's because I think television on DVD is a rip off. Lyrics are from Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. The song is "Jesus of the Moon" from the album, _Dig, Lazarus, Dig!_

Know Nick Cave and love him.

A/N: I've said it before and I'll say it again, thank you for reading I appreciate it more than words can express and sorry this takes so long to update. I'm a working professional so my free time is limited and I can't always dictate how I spend it. My computer is back so that helps, but I'm an office worked by day, a journalist by night and single gal about town so bear with me.

The army mottos near the end come from the 180th Medical Battalion, the 421st Medical Battalion and the 161st Medical Battalion of the United States Army. I have no allegiance to the American Forces, but the character involved does, so it fit.

EL SCORCHO

Chapter 5: Jesus of the Moon

_I stepped out of the St. James hotel  
And I left you behind curled up like a child  
A change is gonna come  
And as the door whispered shut  
I walked on down the high-windowed hall_

_You lay sleeping on the unmade bed_  
_The weatherman on the television in the St. James hotel said_  
_That the rains are gonna come_  
_And I stepped out on the streets_  
_All sparkling clean with the early morning dew_

_Maybe it was you or maybe it was me?_  
_You came on like a punch in the heart_  
_Lying there with the light on your hair_  
_Like a Jesus of the moon_  
_A Jesus of the planets and the stars_

_Well, I kept thinking about what the weatherman said_  
_And if the voices of the living can be heard by the dead_  
_Well, the day is gonna come when we find out_  
_And in some kind of way I take a little comfort from that_  
_Now and then_

_'Cause people often talk about being scared of change  
But for me I'm more afraid of things staying the same  
'Cause the game is never won  
By standing in any one place  
For too long_

_Will it be me or will it be you?  
One must stay and one must depart  
You lying there in the St. James hotel bed  
Like a Jesus of the moon  
A Jesus of the planets and the stars_

* * *

_Malibu, Six months later, the Jane Residence_

Charlotte Jane rolled her eyes and turned her IPod up louder. They were at it again; her parents were fighting all the time now, and always about the same thing, her Dad's job. He wanted to quit and her mother wasn't having it. Charlotte didn't really know what her father did for a living. Sure she'd seen the ads on late night television which featured a man who looked like her father, but felt like stranger. The man on TV wore sparkly suits and eyeliner, plus he was totally embarrassing to be in any way related to, so Charlotte did her best to deny the connection to strangers. The other girls in her neighborhood were the children of actors, directors, producers or at the very least the lawyers and agents who profited from working for the people in "the business". It was no end of humiliation for Charlotte that her father was not on television because someone paid him to be, but because he was hocking his services as a fake psychic.

Oh, she knew he was a fake. No matter what her mother and Bernie said to the contrary. Charlotte was thirteen, not stupid. And, thirteen was a new, and more cut throat place to be in life. She went to a private school populated by stereotypical California girls, whose parents were celebrities. Within those walls it mattered more what kind of celebrity your parents were, rather than just that they were famous. In today's world anyone could be famous, just look at the Kardashians. The point was to be classy famous. Classy people didn't sell themselves as personal help to real celebrities which is what Charlotte thought her father's work amounted to. They starred in movies, or wrote and directed them. Her most popular classmate's Dad produced Oscar winning movies and it was understood that if you wanted to be anyone in Hollywood you had to suck up to him, and wear his wife's horribly designed dresses to awards shows. No one ever brought up the fact that Mr. Hollywood cheated on his wife with every young starlet who was willing to trade blow jobs for fame, because you don't mess with that kind of power.

Charlotte knew her father lacked that kind of power in the eyes of their neighbors. She'd managed to wrangle her way into the good graces of Mr. Hollywood's kid and had eaten dinner with his family twice. Each time the man of the house had implied her father's work, while lucrative was, "the best con ever. Your old man has a dozen of my best actresses on his client list. Stupid broads believe in that mumbo jumbo, and they call me a shyster". It made her furious and also incredibly embarrassed to imagine the Hollywood players and the attorneys in their neighborhood snickering about her father's work behind his back. She knew her Dad didn't care. She also knew he could probably make short work of those over pompous stuffed shirts in a battle of the wits, but none of that mattered in the circles her family moved in.

She was scared and hesitantly hopeful about her father's plan to quietly wind down his practice. Charlotte didn't want him to pack them all up and move somewhere ridiculous like, the mid-west. But, she also didn't see what possible future-socially- she could have at her current school. The options that were open to the children of the rarified blue bloods and the Hollywood royalty would be closed to her. And she loathed the idea of pandering to the crash world of reality TV or tabloids like every heiress with a sex tape. She hoped that her mother would stop fighting her father on his choice to retire and that he'd take them not far away, but far enough away from Malibu, say Northern California, so she could attend a reasonable, but still private school attended by kids whose parents were doctors, lawyers, academics, legitimate business people and artists; people who were still elites, but not famous for it. Some might find her line of thinking contradictory or even a tad selfish, but Charlotte did not. Self-reflection is not something thirteen year olds are huge on, and she was no different than her peers of all social classes and backgrounds in this way.

The yelling coming from her parents' bedroom was getting louder and more involved so Charlotte decided to take her IPod and her _Seventeen_ _Magazine _outside to the pool so she wouldn't have to listen in any longer. She longed to change into one of her many bikinis, but when her father was at home her mother made her hide them. He didn't approve of a two piece at her age, which was totally unfair because she wasn't a child anymore, she was a teenager, but there was no point in causing another fight today so a t-shirt and shorts would have to do.

* * *

"I don't see why you can't fit Monica in," Elizabeth Jane, nee Angela Rushkin said while folding up a shirt in her walk in closet.

Jane rolled his eyes and got ready to have another "discussion". "Because if I fit Monica in, then I have to fit Agatha in, and so on and so on Liz, and that's not exactly how winding down one's practice works."

Monica Woodhouse was one of their neighbors. She lived further up in the hills of their gated community. In L.A. real estate was an outward show of hierarchy. The closer you were to the sky the more important you were. People were willing to live on a slant in Jane's neighborhood just to prove their worth. Monica starred in a world famous sitcom about twenty-somethings (though she herself was 35) living in a loft apartment in New York City.

"Well, it would only be polite Patrick. Agatha has just as much claim to your time; maybe more than Monica."

Agatha Baggins was a British movie star who had relocated to Hollywood around the same time the Jane family took up residence in Malibu. She and her husband, a director, were considered the eccentrics of the neighborhood and they relished being on Jane's client list because they felt a tendency towards the occult made them stand out even more. Agatha was convinced she'd been a member of the royal family in a past life and thought herself quite proficient with a Tarot pack. None of these proclivities were what made her more deserving in Liz's eyes than Monica of her husband's services. Agatha did movies only. Many of them Oscar worthy, and her husband also worked exclusively in film. In Hollywood it doesn't matter how many people watch TV, film is the rarified world everyone strives for.

"I'm slowly weaning them all babe. I don't care who pays them or what they do for a living," Jane said and flopped on the bed.

His wife exited the closet and came to stand above him. "I can understand wanting to give up the public appearances and the every man appointments, but what's wrong with keeping a small, exclusive practice going?" she asked.

Jane rubbed his eyes and unbuttoned his vest. "You call it a practice like I'm a doctor or something. I'm a fraud _Angie_ you know that. I'm not helping these people. I'm taking their money and in our neighbors' cases, going to their parties and accepting their favor. I don't care anymore about being seen with the beautiful people. I never did. It was the money I was after, and I've got it, we've got it. Remember when we first started out? What's one of the first rules of the con besides trust no one and never break character? Never stay in the same place too long. We've been here, amongst these people for a very long time Ange. Next I'll be on Oprah or some equally horrifying talk show with Monica teaching people how to love their inner child based on some book we co-wrote together."

"Stop calling me Angela. And, what's so bad about Oprah? She's the most successful of our kind out there. You want to see a first rate con, there you go."

"First of all, I'm not cut out to be Oprah. My weight is far too consistent. Second, how many times do I have to tell you discretion is key? My face all over magazines and on my own talk show, and infomercials…it's dangerous."

Liz sniffed and smoothed out the bed cover. "I can remember a time when all you wanted was to be rich and famous; to have your face everywhere. I was supportive of that goal Patrick and it got us to where we are."

"I was young and stupid back then. I've seen enough of the inner selves of the rich and famous to know they're just quivering balls of insecurity and entitlement. I don't want this world anymore and it's more than that sweet heart. It's getting increasingly dangerous for me to operate the con without consequences."

Now it was Liz's turn to roll her eyes. She was so tired of this excuse. What possible danger could they be in? Jane caught her reaction and it made his blood boil, but he tamped it down. They'd already had one screaming match today and he wanted to talk rationally. Still, he needed her to know the reality of their situation.

"You really don't get the lengths I go to protect our family do you?" he asked. "We have a rather unseemly past if you can recall it, _Elizabeth_?"

"There are plenty of people from the underworld we used to move in that would like to see me fall, see us fall really. How do you think I control that? I pay for their silence and mercy-continuously. If I wasn't in the spotlight anymore they'd have nothing to threaten us with. Exposure doesn't matter to a nobody."

Memories of a misspent youth in Vegas, and the faces of the thieving ring they'd join flashed through Liz's mind but she pushed back the memory. That world had been desperate and grubby, so completely different from the life she lived now. It was insupportable to think that her past life, or those base associates who'd populated it could follow her here to such a beautiful and secure community.

"Who are these threatening people?" she asked. "You never breathed a word about them until you needed an excuse to quit and frankly Patrick I find it hard to believe."

"You find it hard to believe? Angela we robbed a crime boss!" Jane couldn't help shouting the last part and so Liz raised her voice as well.

"Stop calling me Angela! And that was thirteen years ago Patrick! If anything bad was going to happen it would've by now!"

"Do you honestly think thirteen years means dick to a mob family that's been majorly insulted? Not to mention the fact we stiffed our "friends" in the end by making off with the entire haul! Jesus, babe, I know the saying is no honor among thieves and we did what we had to do, but it works both ways. We showed them no pity, so why should they show us any?"

When they'd run away from the carnival at eighteen Vegas had been the natural next step. Jane could both work at, and hustle, the casinos while Angie made a particularly alluring cocktail waitress. But, neither job set them up with the kind of cash flow Jane would need to start his own con business so they'd taken to moonlighting with the very organized criminals Las Vegas was famous for.

They'd spent nine years working as professional thieves for a local crime boss named Marco Fatone, but then Angie had gotten pregnant. You can't raise a kid in the life, or at least Patrick and Angie weren't willing to, so they'd begun devising a plan to sever their life from Fatone in a way that wouldn't involve the both of them being driven to middle of the dessert and forced to dig their own graves.

They'd participated in one last grand heist; a hotel Fatone owned was hosting an exhibit of ancient and precious jade owned by the Chinese government. The precious artifacts that used to adorn ancient emperors were worth millions on the black market and Fatone wanted them. He fancied owning pieces of history, especially those belonging to powerful men. The question was how best to obtain them, it wasn't like the Chinese were just handing them out. No, they would need to be taken and who better to seamlessly rob the place than its owner? Well, its owners' minions that is, amongst whom Jane and Angela were counted.

The plan had been to make off with as much of the treasure as possible and turn it over to Fatone who would negotiate its entry onto the black market in return for the cash value of the takings after he's chosen some particularly stunning pieces for his own private collection.

The first two parts of the plan went off without a hitch, but Marco Fatone made a grave error in judgment when he tasked his golden boy, Patrick, with transporting the cash back to him. It wasn't like this decision was out of the ordinary. Fatone did the back room dealings, but a legitimate business man like himself couldn't be caught with brief cases full of jade or cash should the cops get savvy. Jane was his best mule, and stood to gain a fraction of the spoils for risking his neck, however, a fraction wasn't good enough anymore when you factored in an unborn child and a scared wife.

Jane had picked up the cash from the black market connection, but he'd never gone back to Fatone, and it was years before he returned to Vegas. Instead, he and Angie had made a run for it and used their ill gotten gains to start Jane's psychic practice and build their life in Malibu.

Fatone had met a suspicious end six years ago, and so Jane had felt relatively safe in entertaining Bernie's suggestion that he put on shows in Vegas, but that didn't mean the twelve other people who'd been in on the Emperor's Take weren't pissed. It had taken a lot of hush money and some hired muscle to ensure they didn't come knocking in Malibu, and Jane knew that every time his pretty face appeared on another TV screen, magazine or billboard his enemies' thirst for revenge got that much greater.

"I don't see why you don't just handle these people, these threats once and for all," Liz muttered.

"Handle them?" Jane asked. His eyebrows were almost in his hairline at that comment. "Did you not hear anything I just said?"

"I heard you say you pay deviants to stay away from our family!"

Jane thought it was funny that all it took was a sensible skirt and nice address to make Angie forget that those "deviants" used to be her friends and accomplices.

"Why not deal with them once and for all Patrick!"

"What are you suggesting? That I hire a hit man? Here's the thing babe, if I pay someone to stay away from us and the cops get wind of it, that's extortion and I'm the victim. However, if I pay someone to break knees, or skulls that's murder, and I'm in quite the pickle if I'm caught."

Liz let out an exasperated sigh. "You never could stomach violence could you Patrick? You've never had the nerve unless pushed to do what needs to be done."

"I robbed a mafia don for you! For us!"

"It was my idea! You had to feel Charlotte rolling around in here," Liz pointed at her lower abdomen, "and I had to cry myself to sleep every night before you'd make a move!"

"You always talked about leaving the carnival, but who actually got us the means to get out? I did Paddy! I'm the one who stole money from my family, cause yours had none to speak of. I'm the one who got her brothers to defy their father and protect you that night from your Dad and mine. It was my father's truck we left in! I've done nothing but support you and ensure your crazy plans came to fruition and I don't know what the point is anymore!"

"You haven't been the same since you took off that night from Vegas!"

And just like that they were off again, fighting loud enough for the angels to hear. Jane accused Liz of being selfish, and she accused him of not loving her anymore. He told her that was ridiculous and Liz asked if he ever considered what he was doing to Charlotte. Did he intend to haul her out of her school, one of the best in the country and drag her from her friends and the only life she'd ever known? Jane countered with the argument that Charlotte wasn't safe living this manufactured life while malevolent forces from her parents' past hovered in the wings.

Neither of them heard their dejected daughter come in from the pool to get a soda, and they didn't hear the buzzer from the front door go off either.

* * *

Charlotte thought it was weird that someone was ringing the doorbell, but she shrugged it off. It was hard for a person to get into their gated community without good reason, and clients were always showing up off and on for private sessions with her father. It was probably just someone desperate to know if their spouse was cheating on them, or if they'd land the next role they auditioned for. Charlotte let the buzzer ring and waited for the staff to answer the door, and then she remembered it was Saturday and the maids weren't in on weekends.

She sighed with all the oppressed dignity a teenager used to being waited on can muster and ambled towards the door. At least whatever loser was outside would distract her Dad from fighting with her Mom.

"Yeah?" she asked while pulling open the door.

A mousy looking woman with frizzy hair who was obviously agitated stood at the door.

"Is Mr. Jane here? I need to see Mr. Jane. I'm a client and I demand to see him!"

Later Charlotte would realize that the woman's mental state was clearly disturbed, but in that moment she seemed no more odd than most of the other people her father counseled.

"Come in, I'll check and see if he's available," she said and directed the woman towards a plush chair in the spacious entry way.

Charlotte went to the stairs and found the closest intercom. She pushed the button for her parents' bedroom.

"Dad, Dad, Dad, Daaaaad, Daaaaaaaad," she called into the voice box.

Several seconds later her mother's voice crackled down the intercom. "Charlotte what is it? Your father and I are having a discussion".

Charlotte could hear the tears in her mother's voice even through the electric static.

"Mom, someone's here to see Dad, a client. She says she has an appointment."

There was more static and then her mother spoke again. "Honey, I need you to be the gracious young lady you are and take the lady's name and number and your father will reschedule with her. He's busy right now. It's a personal matter."

Charlotte banged on the intercom button hard. "Fine! This isn't my job you know!"

She stamped back over to the frazzled woman in the porch. "My Dad can't see you today. A family matter came up and it's real important and he's very sorry but he'll have to reschedule."

The woman clutched her hand bag to her chest and dropped her eyes. "Oh, no, that won't do, that won't do at all."

* * *

"Well, there goes another client!" Liz huffed as she walked away from the intercom. "Are you happy?"

"I don't have any clients today," Jane said and rubbed his temple.

"Well, you must, or maybe you did and then when you just up and decided to quit you forgot to cancel her appointment. Either way she's probably put off now."

"I know there's no one scheduled for today Liz. This is me you're talking to. I don't forget things."

"No, you forget all right, you just remember whatever you've deemed important and to hell with everything and everyone else."

Jane sighed and went to stand behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her neck. He kissed her there, just at the base. "Ange, baby, tell me what's wrong, what's really wrong. Are you mad that I want to give up the con, or are you mad that I'm changing your life without asking you?"

She leaned back into his touch and sighed. "I just, I'm tired of running Paddy. I'm tired of moving. I've been travelling since I was born. I'm sick of it. We have a life here now. I don't want to leave again. Where would we go? What would we do? You can't just get an office job."

"I don't need one. Ange there's investments. Lots of them. We're doing better than Bernie's books show. I could never work again and we'd be okay. Better than okay."

She turned in his arms and gazed up at him. "And what about the other stuff? What about he danger? Paddy I don't want you to be famous because it matters to me. I love you now, I loved you when you were no one and I'll love you forever no matter what. But, if we just disappear somewhere, if you become anonymous, it'll be easier for those people in the shadows to make off with you, or all of us one night and no one would care. At least famous is a kind of protection. Someone would miss you, someone besides me, when you're gone."

He gave her a lop-sided smile. "Famous didn't work for Biggie and Tupac."

"Don't joke around. I'm being serious."

"I am too. Yeah, we have gates and guards here, but we're just trading one cage for another as long as I keep conning people. We'll go somewhere just as safe, but as private citizens. I'll cash in the investments and become, I don't know… a pillar of the community."

She laughed at this, but he kept going.

"Think about it babe. We go somewhere big, yet small. We get a nice house, we pay some nice people to keep it safe and I start handing out money to civic developments, and charities. Sit on a bunch of boards. Those are the kind of people no one suspects Ange, and those are the kinds of people that get noticed when they're missing. Why do you think politicians get away with so much?"

Liz buried her head in his chest and thought about it. She could live that life; she could even learn to love that life. Imagine a Jane and a Rushkin as notable members of society. The thought nearly made her laugh out loud again. But instead she wrapped her arms around her husband, the only man she'd ever loved, would ever love and mumbled her acquiescence.

"What?" he asked.

"I said okay, let's do it. Let's become philanthropists," she said. "God, what dirty money those school lunches are going to be made of."

"Hey you remember what hungry feels like. Those kids aren't gonna care were the money comes from as long as there's enough milk and cookies for everyone."

"That's true. I remember-

Liz didn't get to finish her thought because the intercom was beeping again. Jane released her and walked over to it.

"What is it sweetie?" he asked after pushing the button.

"Dad…I…"

Charlotte sounded both far away and afraid. Jane didn't need to be a psychic to know something wasn't right. Liz was instantly at his side. She'd realized the moment she'd given birth that if Charlotte was in trouble she'd just know, and she knew it now.

"Honey what's wrong? We're coming down right now okay?"

Jane knew his voice sounded as scared as he felt.

Chalotte's next words were choked with tears. "No! Stay where you are! I-

There was a scuffling sound and the intercom went off. Jane didn't need the intercom to hear his daughter's next scream and he wasn't wasting anymore time. He and Liz flew down the stairs and into the kitchen. Charlotte wasn't there.

"Charlotte! Where are you?" Jane screamed.

"Daddy!"

The porch, she was in the porch. Jane grabbed Liz's hand and pulled her towards the foyer. Then he came face-to-face with the most unexpected and terrifying sight of his life. His only child was being held at gun point by a very familiar face, just not one he'd ever expected to see again. Jane used all of his considerable skill to reign in his emotions and he pushed Liz behind him. She was hysterical and that wouldn't do right now. They needed calm, he needed to project that calm.

"Hello Sally," he said as if Sally Peters had just bumped into him on the street instead of taking his daughter hostage.

"Hello Mr. J-J-Jane. I'm s-s-sorry about this, I really am, b-b-but I needed to see you, and every time I c-c-call the lady who answers your phone s-s-says you aren't t-t-taking clients anymore."

Jane raised his hands in surrender and kept his voice soft and low. "I'm very sorry Sally. I've been making some changes to my business lately and I'm trying not to put anyone out in the process, but it seems you were neglected I'm very sorry for that."

"I'm always g-g-getting neglected!" Sally yelled. She kept her gun lodged firmly against Charlotte's head. "First by my mother! Then by all the other kids! And now even by the people who say they want to help!"

"Sally, I'm sorry. I mean it," Jane said and inched closer to her and his daughter.

"Patrick don't!" Liz howled. She was beyond frightened. This was too much. That crazy woman was going to hurt her baby.

Sally tightened her hold on Charlotte, and Jane turned back around to his wife. "Angie stay calm please. Sally's not going to hurt Charlotte; are you Sally?" he asked while turning to face the troubled woman. "You just wanted my attention yes? And now you've got it. So, why don't you give Charlotte to her mother and you and I will go outside to the balcony and have a session. Does that sound fair?"

"I c-c-can't," Sally stammered.

Jane didn't let his annoyance show. "Why not? You have my undivided attention Sally you don't need my daughter anymore. She can't help you, but I can."

"N-n-n-o! I n-n-need the truth. You won't t-t-tell me the truth unless I m-m-make you."

"I don't understand Sally. Help me understand."

"I have to s-s-see a doctor now, they made me at work or I'll lose m-m-my job. He says you're a liar. He s-s-says you t-t-took my money and you're a f-f-fraud and you t-t-think people like me are stupid. I s-s-said it wasn't true, but you never answer the phone, and I don't know w-w-what to think now."

She cocked the gun. "T-t-tell me the truth Mr. Jane."

"I will," Jane said. "But, first I want you to let my daughter go. This is between you and me Sally."

"F-f-fine."

Sally pushed the Charlotte away from her, and the terrified girl ran into her mother's arms. Liz made to bundle her into the living room so they could escape through the French doors and call the police. But, Sally was having none of it.

"Stay where you are or I'll shoot!"

Liz and Charlotte complied immediately. Liz was terrified, but her baby came first, so she held Charlotte behind her to create a shield between her daughter and the mad woman.

"Please Sally, I'm begging you, you have the power-I don't-so I'm asking you with all I have to let my wife and child go, and then you and I can discuss this together," Jane pleaded.

"I c-c-can't let them go Mr. Jane," Sally replied forlornly. "I want to honest, b-b-but you won't t-t-tell the truth if I d-d-don't give you a good reason."

The gun was now pointed squarely at Liz and Charlotte.

"T-t-tell me you're not a fraud, and mean it and they l-l-live."

Jane felt his stomach drop. The only way out was to lie, to lie like he always did, to keep lying even though it was his profitable deceit that had brought them all to this tragic point. Under ordinary circumstances, and even under more dangerous ones- he'd faced down mobsters after all- Jane would have thought his chances good. One convincing lie and they'd all be free, but right now, staring into Sally Peters eyes Jane knew she would see the truth, know the lie. He was damned either way.

What had the redhead in Auburn Inn called it? Blow back? There oughta be a law indeed.

"Sally…if I tell you the truth, the absolute truth, no matter what it is will you let my wife and child go? You can do what you want with me, but you have to let them go."

Sally looked pensive for a moment, but then she trained her gun on Jane and he let out a sigh of relief.

"Okay, f-f-fine, the truth Mr. Jane w-w-what is it?"

Jane took a deep breath and tried to sound strong. Sally needed to believe that he was still calm and in control, she'd respect him more that way. If he fell to pieces he'd be no more useful than she was at this point and someone had to keep a clear head and get them all out of this alive. Even Sally didn't deserve to go to jail or die here today. She was a victim too.

"The truth is Sally, the truth…"

God, it was so hard to think with that gun pointed directly at him. Jane, unlike most people had never been subject to phobias or even irrational fears. He'd met carnies who could lie on a bed of nails and not let the pain get to them, but show them a spider and they'd dissolve. Jane had no Achilles' heel that way, but guns really got to him. There'd been that day, when he was just a small boy, no more than four or five and the locals from some hick town in Georgia had come into the caravan with their guns cocked. They said one of the carnies had raped a young girl from their community. No one knew if the accusation was true or not, but those good ol' boys had no intention of investigating the matter. They were going to shoot first and take names later.

Jane could remember very little about the day, he'd blocked it out so as to never be touched by that kind of fear again, but sometimes he could still hear the shots, and the baby toe on his left foot had never looked quite normal after getting grazed by a stray bullet.

Now here he was, a grown man and father trying to protect his family, but the gun, the gun terrified him. The long repressed four year old inside him knew just how painful getting shot was, even if the bullet just barely scrapped your toe.

He didn't want to know what it felt like to take one to the chest, which was exactly where Sally Peters' gun was aimed right now.

Jane heard Charlotte whimper and it gave him all the resolve he needed. "The truth is Sally your doctor is right. I'm a fraud. And, if you want to punish me for that you can, but think about the consequences Sally. You need help, you deserve help, you deserve to be happy and if you hurt my family no one will be able to help you."

"Help me?" Sally screamed. "No one helps me! No one ever really helps me! You lied! You're a liar! Everyone is a liar!"

"Sally please calm down-

Sally turned the gun and pointed it at Liz and Charlotte. "You have a b-b-beautiful family Mr. Jane, b-b-but you don't d-d-deserve them," she said and pulled the trigger.

Jane watched in horror as his wife and child hit the floor. The sound of his daughter's head hitting the floor would be forever etched in Jane's memory, but luckily he didn't think forever was going to last that much longer. Sally had become momentarily paralyzed by her actions, but was now recovered, and with a wail she pointed the gun at Jane and fired.

* * *

It was this second round of shots that convinced Agatha Baggins, who was communing with nature on her balcony, to call the police. As an upper class English woman Agatha knew what gun shots sounded like, as she'd been hunting since she was old enough to walk. Her father had loved two things, hounds and guns, in that order and his family was somewhere amongst the distance thirds.

She could tell you the make of a weapon just from the sound it made when going off, which is why when she dialed 911 she said rather formally, "Dear me, but I do believe someone's just shot up my neighbors' home with a Lorcin-380…that's a .38 dear…well, I'm not completely sure, but I've good reason to believe, after all that's what you Yanks kill each other with the most….now see here young lady, do you know who I am? I'm Agatha Baggins, and my neighbors may be dying in pools of their own blood are you sending anyone or not?"

Jane would never know how much he owed to his former client, even if she was an English wing nut.

* * *

Detective Wayne Rigsby surveyed the damage in front of him, and sighed. He'd seen worse, after all he'd served in Afghanistan and Iraq training local police forces in the hopes that some day his country could pack up, go home and leave the populace in capable hands. Too often his earnest efforts had attracted the attention of terrorists and insurgents leading to scenes much like the one in front of him; innocent people got murdered and the person responsible committed suicide.

Sally Peters hadn't strapped dynamite to her chest and walked into a busy Afghani police station, but she was the same kind of coward in Rigsby's mind. Killing was something he'd had to do, but it wasn't something he took lightly, and murder/suicides always got to him, because the responsible party would never face the consequences of their actions. He wasn't sure there was any noble way to take another person's life, but he was definitely sure there was no bravery here.

Well, not unless you counted the mother. Rigsby walked over to where Elizabeth Jane's body was being photographed. The woman had saved her child's life by throwing the girl to the floor when the shots rang out. Charlotte Jane had a concussion, and had been raced to the hospital moments after emergency services had hit the scene, but she'd be fine, well, barring the dead parents thing.

Rigsby crossed the short distance between Elizabeth Jane and her husband Patrick. He lay just two feet in front of Sally Peters' body.

"Two shots to the head," Rigsby said out loud to no one in particular. "She was pissed at you man."

Rigsby cocked his head to the side and surveyed Patrick's body. It left him unsettled. Not because of the blood and gore, again, he'd seen worse over seas, but therein was the source of his strange feeling. He'd seen men with worse wounds than this guy's live to tell the tale, but surely the medics and the coroner had done their job thoroughly, right?

The young detective crouched next to the man's body and tried to decide what to do next. Was it wishful thinking or battle experience that told him that Patrick Jane, for all the odds against him, wasn't as dead as the EMT would have them believe? Rigsby waged an internal debate with himself. He was new, and he wasn't a doctor, but still the former soldier inside him knew that if this had been A-stan, he'd be hefting Patrick Jane over his shoulder and bringing him back to the medical tent. This wasn't a body, it was a very, badly injured man, he was sure of it.

Rigsby made an executive decision and splayed his long frame out next to Patrick Jane, and did what no cop was ever supposed to do, until after CSI completed their work; he touched the body and he did it without gloves.

Rigsby ignored the calls of alarm from his colleagues and reminded himself that a man's life was on the line, plus they already knew who the killer was; she was lying just over his shoulder.

There was no pulse at the carotid artery, so Rigsby improvised in a manner-that if his team were already worried about his sanity-was only going to make things worse. He undid Patrick's pants and with a mumbled apology to the dead, or perhaps just unconscious man, shoved a hand into Jane's boxers. Rigsby rummaged about and then lay with a look of intense concentration on his face.

There! There it was! The shallow, thread like pulse of the nearly dead working its way through the femoral artery. No one ever wants to check a corpse's groin.

"He's alive!" Rigsby screamed. "He's alive! This man needs to get to a hospital right now!"

"No way," scoffed the lead EMT. "Two shots to the face at point blank range-

"Not the face!" Rigsby pointed out. He indicated to body. "Just his left temple. She wasn't a good shot. This woman clearly had no experience with fire arms. She totally missed the daughter and only got one into the mother's chest because she played the hero. I'm not saying he won't be a vegetable, but we've got to try."

The attendant still looked reluctant, so Rigsby took another wild chance and grabbed the smaller man's hand. He dragged the protesting medic to the floor and positioned him next to Patrick, then with another quick apology Rigsby forced the EMT's hand into the wounded man's groin.

"Feel it?" Rigsby asked. "Concentrate."

His crazy antics were rewarded when he saw the medics eyes widen. "Get a stretcher people! I want an IV started now! This one's live!"

There was a flurry of action, and Rigsby was forced away from Patrick's body so that the medics could prepare him for the ambulance ride. The detective moved away willingly, and pulled out his phone to make a much needed call to an old friend. There were plenty of surgeons in L.A., but only one would be capable of ensuring a man in such a desperate situation had any chance at all. Lucky for Patrick Jane, Wayne Rigsby knew that doctor personally.

* * *

"This better be good Rigsby. I'm at work," Major Kimball Cho, of the U.S. Army Medical Corp barked into his cell phone.

"Oh it is. I promise you. How many major traumas have you gotten to deal with since coming home?"

Cho squeezed his eyes shut and listened to the hospital racket coming at him from all sides. Sometimes he thought it was actually less chaotic in Iraq. "I don't follow you Captain. I've been awake for forty-eight hours now, so could you get to the point quickly?"

"Are you in L.A. today?" Rigsby asked.

"Yup, it's Wednesday, so I must be at UCLA," Cho joked.

"What are the chances you can make it St. John's in less than an hour?"

"Santa Monica? What the hell for?"

"I'm at a crime scene. Murder/suicide, the perp took out a family of three. She missed the kid, nailed both the parents. I just figured out, no thanks to your kind, that the father is still alive, barely. He took two to the left temple, but one looks like a graze man, and they thought he was dead for a half hour now and the poor fucker's still going-

"And, you're telling me this because?"

"Come on Major, when's the last time you got this kind of challenge? You know how long it takes to fly the boys in from the front lines for surgery, and most of them are wearing their insides on the outside. This guy's relatively intact-

"Shot in the head is just as bad a disembowelment Rigsby, it just happens in two different places. You can live without your intestines, but you kind of need your brain."

"Well if you're not up to it, I'll just follow the ambulance to St. John's and watch some second rate hack in their emergency room do the surgery when he's probably never seen what an automatic weapon can do to a human body, not to mention spends two-thirds his day on the golf course. Then I'll mosey on up to the thirteen year old girl's room and tell her she lost both her parents today, and one of them she lost twice, and the second time was to incompetence-

"Fine! Tell them be prepared for me and my team, and make sure they know, I do this and I do it with my team…and not for nothing Rigsby, but he better be really messed up. I'm on getting on the 405 for anything less."

"I think I actually saw part of his brain."

"Perfect."

* * *

Forty-five minutes later Major Cho and his surgical team clamored into St. John's Health Center where Patrick Jane was clinging to life. Ten minutes after that Cho was scrubbed and prepped for surgery. He took a moment to observe the patient lying before him. Yes, Humpty Dumpty had taken a great fall indeed, but this King's man was going to put him back together again. It would take time and skill, but it could be done, all Cho needed was for Patrick Jane to hang in there and give him the hours required. Still, it wouldn't be easy and the Major could feel the doubt rolling off his team in waves.

Without raising his eyes from the body on the table Cho called out to his team. "What are we here for?"

Spirits around the table went up, and the team felt the rush of adrenaline that comes from trying to beat the greatest odds.

"Too serve!" They called back.

"Who do we serve?" Cho cried.

"Anyone! Anytime! Anywhere!"

"What do we do?"

"Conservo et supero!"

Cho looked up and indicated to his lead nurse, a capable, beautiful woman named Elise. If he hadn't had the constant threat of deployment hanging over his head, Cho would have asked her out ages ago.

"Do it," he said to Elise with finality.

"It's such a shame," she sighed and picked up the electric clippers. "I bet his hair is really beautiful without all this blood in it."

"I think he'd rather live without it, than leave a pretty corpse," Cho replied and watched as Elise shaved the patient's head.

"Alright people," he said when the last lock fell. "Let's try to save a little girl's world."

_Well, I kept thinking about what the weatherman said  
And if the voices of the living can be heard by the dead  
Well, the day is gonna come when we find out  
And in some kind of way I take a little comfort from that  
Now and then  
_  
_'Cause people often talk about being scared of change  
But for me I'm more afraid of things staying the same  
'Cause the game is never won  
By standing in any one place  
For too long_

_Will it be me or will it be you?  
One must stay and one must depart  
You lying there in the St. James hotel bed  
Like a Jesus of the moon  
A Jesus of the planets and the stars_

_TBC…_


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to _The Mentalist_. Lyrics and title are from the Tragically Hip song, "Ahead by a Century" from the album _Trouble in the Henhouse_.

EL SCORCHO

Chapter 6: Ahead by a Century

_First thing we'd climb a tree  
And maybe then we'd talk  
Or sit silently  
And listen to our thoughts  
Illusions of someday  
Casting a golden light  
No dress rehearsal  
This is our life_

_-Tragically Hip_

Raising Patrick Jane from the dead took twelve hours of surgery and a good chunk of the hospital's O negative blood supply. Cho worried constantly that he was pushing the limit with the anesthetic, and just because he'd prolonged Jane's life didn't mean he'd saved it. After the operation was complete there was nothing to do but induce a coma so the injured man's brain could heal. Cho couldn't promise Jane would wake up, and he explained this fact to Bernie Schwartz moments after his patient had been moved to the recovery room.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it, no promises," Bernie stated with a dismissive hand gesture. "But honestly doc, what's the best case scenario here? Or even the most likely one? His kid's got no other family, so if Jane is not gonna be able to function as a parent at any point in the future I gotta know. Me and the wife are responsible for his girl now."

"Best case scenario?" Cho asked, and kept his face expressionless. "He survives the coma and actually wakes up when we deem his brain ready."

"And beyond that? I'm talking long term here."

"I wasn't aware there was a long term to speak of yet. I'm sorry for your loss Mr. Schwartz and I think your commitment to care for your friend's child is admirable, but I can't give you a long term prognosis before I'm even certain the patient will live."

Bernie considered the surgeon's explanation. "But, say he does, survive, I mean. What are people like after getting shot in the head?"

"Depends on what you mean by shot in the head," Cho stated frankly.

"Listen doc, you're obviously a wizard at what you do, and I would personally like to offer my thanks for your service to our country-

"You're welcome." Cho said, interrupting the shrewd looking man before turning to walk away.

"Hey! Hey! I'm not done yet!" Bernie called. "I'm not asking you for much here doc. However bad the truth might be I need to know what I'm dealing with here. Maybe you don't know, I get that, but an educated guess would be much appreciated. Or are you just all magic hands and no brains?"

Bernie smirked as he watched the Major's retreating form come to a dead halt. Cho cocked his head and Bernie imagined the surgeon was biting down pretty hard on his tongue. The thinly veiled insult had been a ruse, Bernie didn't actually think Kimball Cho was all action, no nuance, but he needed the doctor to believe otherwise. He'd learned this particular trick from Jane. It was how you dealt with the smart, seemingly unflappable types; you questioned their competence.

Cho whirled around and stomped back towards Bernie. He stopped just a hair's breadth away from the older man and got in his face. "You want my best guess? Here goes, you'll be extremely lucky if he wakes up. If he does come to then you'll have to deal with the aftermath. There's a good chance of brain damage, I have my suspicions he may be blind, or suffer from severe vision loss. That may be recoverable, and in time he might see again, but he might not. When-and if-the patient awakens he'll be disoriented, unable to understand our words, or speak back to us. Couple that with no eyesight and you've got a recipe for trauma. Do you understand? He won't be able to see, to understand, to respond. He won't remember how to eat, or dress or even how to go to the bathroom. Some of it will come rushing back, and some of it will take months, even years of rehabilitation of restore. There are no guarantees."

Bernie felt tears gather around the edges of his eyes. Patrick had been like son to him, and now this? What would he tell Charlotte?

Cho felt clawing guilt building in his stomach, tearing its way up his chest. He hadn't meant to snap at the older man, he was tired. It had been 72 hours now since he'd last slept, and he'd just performed a major neurosurgery. He sighed and placed a hand on Bernie's shoulder. "I'm sorry Mr. Schwartz."

"Why?"

"Because I yelled at you and-

"No, why did you bring him back then? Why not let him die? What kind of life is he gonna have now? What's the point?"

Cho took another deep breath. He wanted to say something noble about the sanctity of life and the oath he'd taken to, "first do no harm", but the words wouldn't come. The truth was Cho had asked himself the very same questions many times while sewing up soldiers with grievous injuries.

People rarely have any trouble defending the right to life, but no one, Cho thought, was willing to discuss the case for death. After a decade on the battle field, and in the operating room, he knew how needed a debate on what constitutes a good quality of life was needed. Patrick Jane had an excellent chance of waking up without his sight or his wits, and Cho wondered if that was what the man would want. He could only hope that if Jane woke up broken he'd be too lost to even be aware of it. The fact he could think in such callous terms bothered the doctor to no end, but he knew emergency medicine was often a practice in futility, and a lesson in the hard facts of reality. Saving a life might amount to little more than prolonging a death.

Cho couldn't believe in miracles anymore, but that was no reason to drag the patient's loved ones down with him. "Look," Cho said, his hand still on Bernie's shoulder. "I'm just trying to prepare you for all possibilities. The truth is Patrick has a much better chance than most people who get shot in the head."

"How so?" Bernie asked rubbing at his face. He pulled a pocket square from the breast of his immaculate suit, and unfurled an expensive looking handkerchief which he promptly blew his nose into.

"The shooter was short," Cho said.

Bernie peered at him over the scrap of fabric. "What?"

"I said the shooter was short. The woman who shot him, she must have been quite a bit shorter than him. That's good."

Bernie was now folding the soiled cloth into smaller and smaller squares while staring hopefully at Cho. "It is?"

"Yes," the surgeon replied. "The woman was obviously a bad shot as well, and I'm guessing she wasn't used to handling fire arms. Killing the wife was a lucky shot. Women are generally shorter than men, and from what the police tell me Mrs. Jane was trying to protect her daughter so she hunched over. The bullets got her in the chest and neck. A major artery got nicked her neck, and she bled out quickly. It was pure chance, not skill on the part of the perp."

"I don't understand. What's that got to do with Jane?"

"He's taller than the perp-significantly so. The first bullet did minor damage to his frontal lobe and then ricocheted off his skull, it didn't implode inside the brain, that's good. The second grazed, and I mean grazed the left side of his head, mostly it's a terrible scalp wound. You ever cut yourself at the hairline Mr. Schwartz?"

Bernie was beginning to catch the doctor's drift. "No, I haven't Major, but my oldest son did once. He tripped going up the steps on our deck and scrapped his head on the landing. Gave him a widow's peak at the age of 10 and it gushed blood, I mean a lot of blood. Miriam and I thought he was gonna die. The doctor kept trying to stitch it up and the damn skin is pulled so tight up there it kept breaking apart and bleeding more. Finally the old woman next door made a poultice for it, and just stuck the cut together with it. Worked like a charm, the old world stuff, it can work you know."

Cho smirked slightly. "Yeah, sure, on scrapes, but I'll take the chemo, not the chanting if I ever get cancer. Anyway, my point is, if you're going to get shot in the head the frontal lobe is the place to get shot, some people have made recoveries that are close to normal after taking one to the frontal lobe."

"Really? How close to normal?" Bernie asked. His voice was pitching up in that way people get when hope is close to muscling out logic.

"Well," Cho knew he'd need to lower the man's expectations. "Closer to normal than the average bullet in the head patient. But, like I said all of this is just speculation until Patrick actually wakes up. We've got far to go before that. Right now swelling on the brain is my biggest concern. We may need to do additional surgery to relieve any swelling that occurs. This might mean removing a part of his skull, and replacing it with a plate later on."

Bernie was not an Orthodox, or even good, Jew by any stretch of the imagination. He knew his long dead mother would be deeply ashamed at how her son made a living, and how little he actually went to temple. Still, the rule was no messing with the wholeness of your body, taking things out and putting things in was sacrilegious, and he recoiled at the thought of Jane's skull being cracked open and just left like that. Or worse still, having a foreign object fused to his head.

"So, what you just take out a piece of his skull? How does he live like that? That's disgusting!"

"Yup, it is, but it's also potentially life-saving. We'd fit him for a special helmet to keep the exposed part of his brain safe, then eventually we'd put a ceramic plate over it to mimic the skull."

"You're shitting me."

"Nope."

"The things science can do nowadays. Christ, my eldest brother died as an infant from 'drafts' in our apartment, that's what they called pneumonia back then."

"Yup, the olden days sucked," Cho offered stoically. "Now if you'll excuse me Mr. Schwartz there's really nothing else I can tell you about Patrick's condition or his chances, and I really need to sleep."

"Just, before you go Major, what can I tell his daughter?" Bernie asked, his eyes pleading for direction. "I can't tell her all about brain swelling, and ceramic plates and rehab, she's just lost her mother and thinks her Dad is done for too."

Cho took a deep breath and considered his options. He thought about all the men and women he'd served with over the years who had children, and how they lived for every letter and care package from home, cherished every good bye hug and counted down the days until they'd be home again.

"Tell her that she's his reason for living, and he's fighting his hardest to get back to her one way or the other."

* * *

_Meanwhile, back at the Auburn Inn_

While Jane fought for his life, Teresa Lisbon was busy getting on with hers. It had been six months since the flashily dressed stranger had blown into her world, and then left just as quickly. She was grateful to Patrick Jane for the distraction, and his more than generous tip, but the experience had also reinforced her determination to build her own noteworthy life, not rely on him or anyone else to rescue her. He was no Prince Charming and she certainly wasn't a helpless princess.

She'd accepted UCLA's offer for a placement in their law program, and would begin classes in September. It was now only May, but there was so much to be done in the meantime. Today was a milestone day-she was selling her business. It was just the first step of many to get her on the road to school.

Teresa had agonized over the decision to off-load the inn. It was not just her business to sell, well legally it was, but symbolically it was her family's operation, and more specifically her mother's. But, luck or providence seemed to be on her side. Teresa smiled slightly and touched the cross on her neck, because instead of having to sell to some stranger who might bull doze the place her brother Tommy and his partner Susan had offered to buy the inn.

It had taken Teresa by complete surprise when the couple informed her of their decision. She'd been worried they were making a gesture that would financially cripple them simply to help her out, but Susan had explained the truth of the matter. She had an excellent monthly pension payment, and a one time lump sum she'd tucked away, both bestowed upon her at the time of her former husband's death by the city of Los Angeles. It was dangerous being a cop and Mike had paid the ultimate price, so his widow had been compensated accordingly.

Committing to buying the inn wasn't the only surprise Tommy and Susan had in store for Teresa. When she'd questioned them at length as to whether or not they truly wanted to take on the burden of running a small business Tommy had strongly argued in the affirmative, but his older sister just wasn't hearing it.

Finally he'd turned to Susan and asked, "Can we tell her?"

"Tell me what?" Teresa demanded, her gaze darting between the two of them.

"Well, Sugar," Susan started, her brown eyes full of warmth. "I'm having a baby!"

Teresa's mouth fell open. "A baby?" she asked breathlessly.

"Yes! A baby!" Susan cried and hugged her fiercely. "A little tiny Wright-Lisbon to be Terence's brother or sister!"

"Ain't it great sis?" Tommy asked while pulling Teresa out of Susan's arms and into his.

"Yeah, yeah it is," Teresa said, while being squat between her brother and his girlfriend. She pushed them both off and tried to be reasonable despite her growing euphoria. "But, you two can't buy this place now. You need money for the baby."

Tommy made a get real face and blew a raspberry at her. "Tess, we've got the money to buy the place, and babies need love, not money. It'll have terrific parents, an awesome older brother and soon, he'll have a lawyer for an aunt in case he gets in trouble!"

"He?" Susan asked.

"Trouble?" Teresa echoed.

Tommy shrugged. "You know what I mean. Come on Tess," he took her by the shoulders. "This is a good thing. Everyone gets what they want. And you've been doing this whole caring for Dad and the inn thing for too long. I'm gonna be a Dad now. It's time I stepped up and did something for the family, for all of us."

"You should go be a lawyer," he continued. "This way me and Susan will have employment that lets us stay home with the kids. We'll take care of Dad. A baby around would be good for him. Might straighten him out a little you know? Make him wanna be sober for the last few years of his life, and the first few years of the kid's."

"Tommy," Teresa couldn't think of anything else to say, and she pulled her brother into an embrace.

"Quit being a girl," he mumbled into her hair and then drew back to noogie the shaggy locks she'd grown out in the last few months. "You're starting to look like Mick Jagger."

"Stop it! I have to grow it out! I won't be able to afford hair cuts in the fall."

"And you don't look like Jagger," Susan countered while giving her boyfriend the stink eye. "It totally looks like when that red head on Sex and the City grew out her hair."

"Really?" Teresa asked hopefully.

"Really," Susan confirmed and swatted Tommy's arm. "Mick Jagger? What is your deal?"

Back in the present Teresa smiled and tugged on the ends of her now even longer hair. It touched the bottom of her nose when she combed it all forward, and she thought she had the makings of a decent bob situation going on now.

She flipped her hair back and glanced at the clock. Susan and Tommy would be there any minute to fill out the deeds of sale. Teresa was excited, but scared. The more concrete steps she took towards school the more real it became. She worried she was too old to start a new life, or that not having attended formal university before would hold her back. All the other students would have degrees and be young, or at least younger than her. It could be the greatest thing she ever did, or the biggest mistake, and what if…

_Pop!_

Teresa forgot all her worries and nearly jumped out of her skin when the little paper frog she kept by the cash registered leapt to life. Jane's memento had made a sharp snapping sound before springing in place. She picked it up and examined it. Surely it only went off because the paper was wearing thin, and she kept it folded up ready to jump so it wouldn't unravel with time. Still, she took it as a sign to let go of her fears, and she went in search of champagne so she, Tommy and Susan could toast their collective good fortune after the contracts were signed.

* * *

_Back at the hospital…one month later_

"Hello Patrick," Agatha Baggins said to the man lying silently in the hospital bed.

Jane had spent the last month in an induced coma in the ICU. He was still unconscious, helped along by intubation for breathing and feeding, but he was now able to receive visitors. Charlotte wanted to be by his side at every moment, but the Schwartz's were adamant she go back to school, there were only a few weeks left to the term anyway, and it was what her mother and father would have wanted. So, today Jane's eccentric neighbor, and somewhat savior, had decided to fill in for Charlotte and pay him the first of many visits.

"My, my, my look at you," the Englishwoman crooned while pulling up a chair next to Jane's bedside. "Well, you've looked better, I'll tell you that."

"Still, could be worse. On that note, I'm sorry about Liz darling, I really am. Oh, don't get me wrong, I knew what you two were all along. I'm English, and we're well acquainted with travelers. Gypsies used to park their caravans on our land, Daddy had such a lot of it you see. We wouldn't even know the dam pikeys were there until they started setting up make-shift plumbing! Still you and Liz are good people, top people really."

Agatha rearranged Jane's blankets in a maternal way and sat back down. "I thought they were dead interesting myself-the Gypsies. Secretive people though, and wily. No wonder you would never discuss money with me. You're surprised aren't you? You thought I believed in all your mumbo-jumbo didn't you? No darling, the husband and I just enjoyed the company. Anything to stir up Hollyweird, you know?"

"This," Agatha said, and smoothed out her vaguely gothic, Victorian dress and disheveled hair, "is just a part I play like any other. Best to be anything but dull no? I- like yourself I suspect-actually have little time for the supernatural. But it is damn good fun to play pretend isn't it?"

"Truth be told Patrick," she said and leaned forward to look at him. "You always reminded me of a great love from my past. Someone else who thought all that psychic, charlatan, occult nonsense was farcical."

"Shall I read to you about him?" she asked. "You're not going anywhere, and I do think you'd enjoy it. The doctors say stimulation is good for you, that perhaps you can hear us in there. If so, you must be dreadfully bored of this drone music they're playing for you. Americans have such common tastes. They treat symphony music like it's just there for background noise or to accompany an elevator ride. I know you're a bit of a music snob, so why don't I turn off this racket and read to you for a bit?"

Agatha switched off the CD player sitting next to Jane's bed and settled back in her chair. Then she pawed around in the large, ornate, black bag she lugged everywhere. It looked like something a witch would carry on the back of her broom, but then Agatha, despite her commitment to rationalism looked a bit like a witch herself.

"Now then," she said after procuring a battered book and a set of reading glasses from the bag. "Best to start from the beginning, I do think you'll like the gentleman in question."

Agatha lapsed into her best theatre voice. "A Study in Scarlett by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Chapter one! Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" she paused and switched to her regular voice, and dropped it a few octaves. "By the by, it's H-omes, not Hol-mes, honestly you Yanks, you think you can just pronounce it any old way and take the U out of color. And you know I adore Rob Downey I do, but he's still a short, American who has no business playing the world's only consulting detective. Did you see the explosions in that mess? Since when has Holmes been an action hero? He spent most of his time smoking and thinking in his slippers!"

"Now where was I?" Agatha asked, her side tracking done with. "Ah, yes, Chapter one!

In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London,

and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the

army. Having completed my studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth

Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon. The regiment was

stationed in India at the time, and before I could join it, the

second Afghan war had broken out…"

Agatha's words spilled forth with great ardor from her mouth and made the short flight into Jane's ears. From there they made the swirling, ephemeral trip down into deep black he now resided in. Could he really hear her? We'll never know. But, we can say, with some certainty what happened next. Somewhere, but not there in that room with Agatha Baggins, Jane woke up.

_And that's when the hornet stung me  
And I had a feverish dream  
With revenge and doubt  
Tonight we smoke them out_

You are ahead by a century  
You are ahead by a century  
You are ahead by a century

* * *

"Jane! Wake up! We landed!"

Jane's eyes snapped open and he peered around. He was not in his extravagant porch pleading for his family's lives anymore nor could he feel any pain. He should have been in pain and he should have been in his house. Where the hell was he? Someone was speaking to-no scratch that-yelling at him.

"Seriously Jane we need to get off the plane!"

What plane? Why did this individual keep calling him Jane instead of Patrick?

He turned his head to the left and nearly let out a scream of his own. Teresa Lisbon was seated next to him, and she appeared to be pissed. Further observation suggested they were in airplane. He shouldn't be in an airplane, he should be dead. The last thing he remembered was watching his wife and child crumple to the floor in a hail of bullets. Then he'd faced the same shooter himself. He could only presume the outcome of being shot at from such a close distance, with such obvious intent to harm couldn't be good.

Maybe he was dying, and his brain was drifting and dreaming as he passed. Maybe this sort of thing happened all the time and that's why people who'd had near death experiences claimed to have seen God, or come back from the "other side". Unless the other side was a small domestic aircraft in Sacramento those people had simply experienced the run away imagination of a brain in peril.

Jane wanted to ask this dream Teresa what she thought about his new theory on near death experiences, but when he opened his mouth all that came out was, "Your hair is longer!"

Dream Teresa's exasperation increased. "Really Jane? I know you think I should wear my hair short, but do you need to comment on the length of my hair all the time? It was shorter before we met, maybe I'll cut it again some time, but not now. I like it long right now, and we have to get off the airplane before they hustle us off okay? I know you're probably tired, but I told you to get some sleeping pills in Palm Springs and you didn't. Plus, don't think I'm not still mad at you. A paper frog doesn't cure all ills."

"Um, okay," He really had no idea what she was talking about.

There didn't seem to be anything else to do but meekly follow this long haired version of Teresa off the plane. He sincerely hoped he didn't have any luggage to find.

"And just so you know Jane, next time you decide to show up on a case during a suspension, bring some extra clothes with you. You smell."

Well, that answered the luggage question. What did she mean by case? What had he been suspended from? Jane decided dream or no dream it was time to get a handle on his current predicament, so he emptied his mind and went into collection mode. They were in a small plane; that meant they'd not traveled far, inter-state most likely. He appeared to be wearing one of his down time suits, which meant whatever he did now, it didn't involve show business, not right at this moment anyway. Angela and Charlotte were no where in sight, but a quick glance at his left hand told him he was still married. He peeked at Teresa's hand on the off chance his subconscious was being particularly naughty. Nope, no ring on her hand, at least it was some comfort to know that even in an imaginary world of infinite possibilities his mind had not made him an adulterer.

Jane gave this new Teresa the once over. She was attired in business casual clothing and moved with more purpose than he remembered. This woman was authoritative, closed off and all professional. Clearly they worked together in this make believe land and right now he was only party to her workaday personality. That was a pity.

Teresa reached up to free her carry on from the over head compartment and Jane's eyes landed on the gun holstered to her waist. Suddenly the pieces began to fall into place. She was a cop, they were on a case…and he'd been suspended? Was he a cop? Jane almost laughed out loud at the possibility. Surely not, that would be absurd. He pawed at his own waist and armpits. No gun holster and no badge in his pockets. What a relief. Still, he was no closer to knowing how the hell he was involved with this woman, or the larger scenario. If he was dreaming the best thing to do was to relax and let the information come to him. Jane knew that the impossible always seemed more than possible in Morpheus's realm, so he'd just wait until his memories, synapses and brain chemistry combined to fill in the blanks.

He decided to simply follow Teresa and limit his interactions with her and this place to reactions only. Jane stuck to this plan for the next twenty minutes while Teresa sorted out her luggage, and interacted with three other people who apparently made up some sort of cop team she belonged to. Their names were Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt. Jane stared at them in awe and was humbled at the power of the human mind. He'd no doubt seen these individuals before. He knew scientifically speaking it was impossible that he hadn't.

Even if it was just for a few seconds on a busy street and he'd taken no real notice of them, his subconscious mind had seen them and filed them away. That was what dreaming was for, it was the downloading and deleting of all the information your brain absorbed during the day. It made sure that mere ten percent of our brain we all use didn't get too overwhelmed.

Jane decided to put aside his rational explanations for the time being and just go with it. He answered as vaguely as possible when spoken to, and didn't screw anything up until they were in the parking lot of the airport.

Then he turned to Teresa and said, "Hey Teresa, I'm not feeling so great can you maybe drive me home?"

That sounded more reasonable than, so I don't know where I live or if I have a car. Can you help?

Teresa however, did not seem to find it reasonable at all. "Jane? Did you just call me Teresa? Wow, you must be out of it. See, this is what happens when you stay awake for seventy-two hours. You get sick and then you deny you're sick and become a trouble making, dead weight at work. Come on, I'm taking you home."

She stomped away towards a Mustang and Jane did his best to follow quickly. Teresa dumped her suitcase in the vehicle's trunk and then turned to face him. "You'd be riding with me anyway. I called Headquarters before you showed up in that cab during the press conference and they told me your car was still parked outside. Obviously that was just part of your clever ruse."

The way she said clever made it perfectly clear she thought his plan had been anything but erudite. Jane had to wonder if his mind felt so guilty over the death of his family that it had conjured up a grumpy Teresa just to punish him.

He got into the Mustang and watched Teresa buckle her seat belt. She started the car reversed out of the parking spot.

"I'm not taking you back to the office, no matter what you say. You need a shower, a nap and a change of clothes. I don't like the idea of taking you to that shit motel you call home, but since you won't take my advice and get an apartment…whatever… I'm not in the mood to have that argument again."

Jane wanted to blurt out, "I live in a motel?"

But, he simply nodded and said, "Okay."

Yes, his mind was definitely punishing him if he lived in a motel. But then, why was he wearing his wedding band? Surely Angie and Charlotte weren't living in a motel with him? He knew that wasn't a possibility. He'd do whatever it took to provide for his family crazy dream or not.

Teresa sighed and glanced at him with a pitying look. "I'm sorry. It's just…you spent this entire case defying me. I know you get results Jane, and I'm even willing to work with your ridiculous schemes from time to time, you know that, but you continue to keep me in the dark whenever it suits you."

He could think of nothing to say but, "Sorry."

"Gee that almost sounded like you meant it."

"Because I do," he really did. He didn't know why he was sorry, but if he'd hurt her feelings he was genuinely remorseful.

"I believe you. I know you only went over my head because you thought this was a Red John case. I'm glad it wasn't but-

Jane ceased to hear anything Teresa said after Red John. His brain was finally getting the memo to build his dream's back story. Red John was a serial killer. He'd murdered Jane's family. That's why he worked with Teresa, he was hunting Red John. He lived in a motel alone because he didn't have a wife and child anymore. He didn't have anything or anyone and it was all down to his own arrogance.

But, no wait, that was incorrect, well it was partially correct, Angie and Charlotte died because of his negligence, but Sally Peters had killed them. He'd been shot as well, that was why he was having a feverish dream. Why then, could he vividly remember finding his family's eviscerated bodies? He could almost smell the blood even now. He could recall the psychiatric ward he'd been housed in afterward, and Sophie, kind, patient Sophie. Then he'd begun consulting for the…CBI, that's were Teresa- no Lisbon, always Lisbon, Senior Agent Lisbon-worked. It all seemed so real, but he knew deep down it that it had to be nothing more than the ramblings of his dying brain.

He needed to lie down and think. It was all getting to be too much.

"Ter-Lisbon, I know you hate to speed," he did know that now, as everything do to with this supposed world came flooding at him. "But, could you make an exception right now? I'm really not feeling well. I need to lie down."

"Jane are you all right?" Lisbon asked and took one hand off of the steering wheel to feel his forehead. "You don't have a fever, but you're all clammy."

His breath was getting short as well. If she didn't know any better she'd think he was going into shock.

"No, I'm not sick," Jane panted. "I think, I think the lack of sleep is just catching up with me."

Lisbon figured the disappointment over the case leading him no closer to Red John was also catching up with him. She'd bet her next bear claw from Marie's his jangled nerves were causing his illness, not some virus picked up after the immunosuppressant effect of not sleeping for three days.

Lisbon pushed on the gas a little. "Just close your eyes and take some deep breathes Jane. I'll risk the speeding ticket just this once."

"Like anyone would give you a ticket," Jane mumbled before letting his eyes slip shut. For a moment he heard an incessant beeping noise, the sound of air being drawn in, and out mechanically, and then, even stranger, a woman's voice speaking to him; a British woman by the sound of it.

He blinked the odd moment off and kept his eyes open for the remainder of the car ride.

Lisbon got him safely home, and he had to admit she was right. He did indeed live in a shit motel. It was clean and functional, but it certainly wasn't a proper home.

He became aware of the intimate, yet distant nature of their relationship when she insisted on putting him to bed. She dug through his dresser drawers and then tossed a pair of men's pajamas at him, before perching uncomfortably in one of his two chairs and ordering him into the shower. When he emerged, clean and dressed for bed, she pulled down his covers and pointed at the mattress.

"Get in," she said tersely.

Jane did as he was told and then Lisbon drew the blankets up to his neck. He was reminded of the time he put her father to bed in another world, but he was starting to question whether or not that had even happened.

Lisbon laid a hand on his cheek and Jane could tell she was battling with herself over what to say. He could see the pleading in her eyes, and he knew there was more than a little longing in his, but he was beginning to understand that just like in his previous life, she was off limits to him here as well.

"Don't come into work tomorrow," was all she said before standing to leave.

Jane actually obeyed Lisbon's orders for once, and he spent the next twenty-four hours lying in bed, trying to make peace with his current situation. His sleep had been fitful and filled with the steady beeping noise, the air whooshing and random voices. When he wasn't surrounded by blackness and confusing sounds he had nightmares full of blood, gore and Angela's lifeless eyes.

Clearly sleep was going to be an issue in this waking hell Sally Peters had sent him to. Jane wasn't a spiritual man, and he didn't really think he'd wandered into Lucifer's homestead, but he knew enough to call it a duck when it quacked like one. Even if this torture was of his own mind's making, it was still a Hell of sorts.

It didn't take long for Jane to get into the swing of things in this living nightmare. He'd always been uncannily bright and it allowed him to assimilate easily. He went to work, he solved cases and he waited for his chance to gut Red John. In between he joked with his colleagues, tried fruitlessly not to notice the invisible string of naked longing that seemed to run between his navel and Lisbon's and returned every night to his shitty motel room, and later the CBI attic, to have dreams filled with beeps, air and blood.

_Stare in the morning shroud  
And then the day began  
I tilted your cloud  
You tilted my hand  
Rain falls in real time  
Rain fell through the night  
No dress rehearsals this is our life_

Life got to be so routine that he started to seriously believe his former existence, the one in which Sally Peters murdered him, and his family, did not actually happen. Jane sometimes wondered if he'd dreamed that scenario up in Sophie's rubber room. But then, how could he explain his 100 percent success rate at solving cases? The only way to explain his success was to base it on the fact that he could not fail to solve a case when his own brain had conjured up the crime and the criminal.

Still, it was incredibly easy to for Jane to lose this rational perspective, especially when it came to Red John. He consistently failed in his quest to eradicate the serial killer from this false existence. If Red John was a figment of Jane's own imagination, but he couldn't control the killer's actions that suggested his nemesis represented a neurological or psychological obstacle that needed to be surmounted. As time dragged on, and he continued to wake up every morning as Patrick Jane CBI consultant, and not Patrick Jane, husband, father, shyster and gunshot victim, Jane realized he might really need to kill this ephemeral Red John.

That was why three years to the day when he woke up on a plane next to Lisbon of the long hair, Jane pumped three bullets into a red haired man in a shopping mall. First, he'd called Lisbon to tell her, "You're going to be the only thing I miss about this place."

_And that's when the hornet stung me  
And I had a serious dream  
With revenge and doubt  
Tonight we smoke them out_

_And disappointing you's getting me down…_

Then three shots rang out clear as bells, the man in front of him dropped to ground bleeding and Jane's world was reduced to blinding white light and the familiar beeping sound from his dreams. It didn't scare him at all. In fact he welcomed the noise, and was especially thrilled when it sounded like the beeps were speeding up. He'd been expecting that. He had a slight inkling about where he was going, or rather returning to, and he just wished Lisbon was coming with him.

* * *

_September 2011…Jane's hospital room_

Dr. Kimball Cho watched Patrick Jane's life support monitors closely as his patient struggled towards consciousness. Cho and his team had begun the slow process of waking Jane from his medically induced coma just hours before. The man had spent a total of five months unconscious, wheeled in and out of one surgery after the other.

Today Cho, and his colleagues, had decided that the patient was ready to wake up. Patrick's brain hadn't swelled terribly, there'd been no need for a ceramic plate and there was little more Cho could do for the man surgically.

The only option was to inject Patrick with the stimulants, hope to hell he woke up and that he made even the smallest of recoveries.

Cho watched as the patient came to-and he suspected- awoke in a sheer panic. It was impossible to know what Patrick Jane was feeling the moment his eyes drifted open. He may have wanted to flail and scream in terror, but he wouldn't be able to. His eyes would be useless, maybe for days, or weeks, or months-even years. Physical movement would be impossible since his muscles had atrophied during his long sleep, and he could no longer remember how to operate them. Cho knew most of the basic responses and movements would come back shortly in the hours to follow if Patrick was lucky, but others like speech, walking and feeding himself would take months to recover.

Patrick's heart rate told Cho everything that the man in the bed could not. Patrick was blind, terrified, bewildered and unable to communicate any of this to the people-whom he was only vaguely aware of-around him.

Cho knew his patient couldn't see him, nor could he understand anything the surgeon might tell him. But, Patrick could hear, and even if he didn't remember how to touch, he would be able to feel Cho's hands on him. So, the doctor reached out and cupped his patient's face. Then the Major displayed a level of empathy most people who knew him casually would assume he was incapable of.

Cho pressed his mouth close to Jane's ear and tried to sound as soothing as possible. It was like talking to a frightened animal, it wouldn't understand your words, and tone was everything.

"You're okay Patrick. You're alive. Everything is going to be okay, I promise you, everything's going to be okay."

Cho didn't mind demonstrating effusive affection for, and lying to, someone who couldn't comprehend his words, or that he was lying, and would never remember this moment. He just hoped some of what he'd crooned into Patrick's ear would come true.

_No dress rehearsal  
This is our life_

_TBC…._


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: You know I've been in law school for a whole semester now and I'm not entirely sure what the need for these things are. But then I'm not studying American common law. Still, is it needed, or are we all doing it because we saw everyone else doing it? Either way, nothing related to The Mentalist is mine and I'm making no money from this, and I don't think I could possibly be causing trade mark confusion, so yeah…

I expect whoever answers my query from above to cite the relevant case law and policy considerations (kidding!).

A/N: So, obviously I'm in law school (insert joke about the road to hell being paved with dead lawyers). And it's eating up 90% of my time. The other 10% I spend sleeping and crying quietly in the shower.

I am still going to finish El Scorcho, World Your Rock and Conversion, but it won't happen till Christmas break and thereafter. Thanks for your patience. Exams are looming and they have to be my priority.

In the meantime I encourage anyone who reads my stuff regularly –and has toyed with idea of writing a fanfic-to write something for this site. There's nothing I like more than spending the 15 mins I allot myself before bedtime to reading some brand new stories on this site from new authors. Come on, enliven my currently time constrained and overwhelmed existence.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to _The Mentalist_, and I'm really not certain a disclaimer is needed for an author's note but as a dutiful law student I shall conform.

A/N: Hello Readers! For some reason I'm getting lots of alerts tonight that ya'll are out there adding me to your favourite author/story lists and signing up for update alerts despite my slackness at posting anything new. So, I feel I should thank you, and promise you this; I finish school at the end of this month, so new stuff for _El Scorcho_, _Conversion _and _World Your Rock_ will be up by mid May. Most likely _El Scorcho _first cause I've been planning it more in my head between study sessions.

I haven't actually had the time to watch the past season of _The Mentalist_ so I'll be catching up in May. To that end, I can't really write anything current so I'm going to start a new story come June that doesn't need to heed timelines. It's going to be called, "The Three Times Patrick Jane Met Someone Smarter Than Him and The One Time He Didn't (But Did)". Maybe. It depends on how many words FF Net will let me jam into a title.

Preview (Please turn off your cell phones and other electronic devices now so you don't disturb the other moviegoers):

Chapter 1: House MD-remake of the first episode of House in which Robin Tunney ate some bad pork. Jane will eat the unclean meant this time and House will impart the kind of Houseian advice to Jane that makes every patient the salty doctor treats rethink their lives.

Chapter 2: The Big Bang Theory-A secret, test version, government laser goes missing from California Tech. The CBI is sent to investigate. Jane encounters the phenomena that is Dr. Sheldon Cooper

Chapter 3: Sherlock- Now that Sherlock Holmes has successfully faked his own death he needs to find Moriarty's henchmen and eliminate them. Jane is about to find out there's always a bigger fish in the sea. Red John may not have friends-just tools-but even Red John answers to Moriarty in the end. Sherlock has made the connection, and in disguise, and on the run he shows up in Sacramento determined to take Jane's life mission away. *

Chapter 4: Dr. Who-maybe…if I can figure out a way to make it work. The Doctor is hard to write…not for the faint of heart. And it would be the one time Jane did but didn't meet someone smarter than him because there's no way The Doctor could allow him to remember the encounter. You can't offer the chance to time travel to a man who would love to undo his past mistakes.

* If you are watching _The Mentalist_ you need to be watching BBC's _Sherlock_. I love _TM_, but _Sherlock_ blows American TV out of the water. Sorry…it does and I'm not even British so I'm not biased on this. Also, _Elementary_ is a bad idea. No CBS, no!


End file.
